


Visions Are Seldom All They Seem

by fel24601



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Childhood Friends, Curse Breaking, Fairy Tale Curses, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Libraries, M/M, Mutual Pining, Once Upon a Dream (Sleeping Beauty Song), Pining, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Royalty, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Beauty Elements, avenging a murder, fairytale AU, lowkey Vera Appreciation Fic, really though if you squint it's sleeping beauty, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2019-10-14 08:32:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17505182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fel24601/pseuds/fel24601
Summary: Prince Baz has waited all his life to come of age and reclaim his mother's throne. But a curse was placed upon him as an infant: before the sun sets on his eighteenth birthday he will be burned by a flame and will die.**Update 11/06: Epilogue





	1. Chapter 1

BAZ

 

By now it’s almost too easy to sneak out. I’ve been doing it all my life. I know every corner of the castle like the back of my hand. I know every alcove, every window ledge, every ancient, creaking door. And thanks to my mother’s old notebooks, I know every secret passage.

Many have long since been blocked off, or some part of their magic has collapsed or worn off and made the passage unstable and too dangerous. But a few still stand. I’ve personally helped to maintain the most useful ones.

I press myself flat against the gilded wall and listen for footsteps. There should be none— only Vera is ever permitted to tend to my chambers and she makes a point to keep unaware of whatever I get up to. But after the Archmage explicitly told me not to go out tonight, I anticipate that someone will have been sent to keep me in.

_“I’m afraid not, your grace,” he said. “It is far too dangerous.”_

_I gritted my teeth and schooled my expression. “The festival is being held in my honour. Should I not go and at least see it?”_

_The Archmage shook his head. His smile was cool and collected and entirely too pleased with himself. “No, you should not. What if something were to happen to you? Festivals mean fire. It’s as though you_ want _to fulfill the curse. What would your lady mother say?”_

_“I wouldn’t know,” I snapped. “I never knew her.”_

My throat burns. For almost eighteen years the Archmage has belittled me. The very moment the crown touches my head next week, my first order of business will be to have him sent away and replaced. He has spent his time as the interim monarch undoing everything my mother fought to accomplish, giving me as little education and preparation as he can get away with, and basking in the riches and luxury and power that have never been his.

The only good thing he ever did was have Simon. And I’m certain that Simon would have been ruined too if his father ever cared enough to spend time with him.

There— footsteps. I knew it. I wait and listen as they go by, and then hurry down the corridor with as much calm surety as I can muster. If I’m to be spotted, at least I can play it off as simply doing what I will. I am a prince, after all. Should I not stroll about my castle when I so choose? (If the Archmage had his way, no.) And I’m not dressed _that_ oddly. Dressed for the cold, sure. It’s clear I’m headed outside. There’s nothing like a winter nighttime walk in the Wavering Wood to clear a future king’s head— or so I’ll say if anyone dares to ask.

Simon’s chambers are in the East wing, and mine in the South. The passage that we need to take tonight is on the furthest side of the castle, where the North and West wings meet. If all goes according to plan, he’ll meet me there shortly.

It’s easier to move the further I get from my chambers. The castle is quieting down for the night, and few people are out and about in the corridors. I keep to the main routes, because I rather don’t care if I’m seen walking through the castle and the thick carpeting muffles my footsteps. As I draw nearer to the passage, though, I switch to the little side corridors, the paths lesser-walked. No one knows about this passage but Simon and myself, and I would prefer to keep it that way.

I slip into the dusty sitting room that has served as a meeting place for many illicit excursions. It’s lovely, just out of use. Coincidentally this sitting room belongs to the suite in which the Archmage once lived, before he decided that, seeing as the Queen would no longer be using them, he would move into the royal chambers. This is the sitting room in which Simon’s mother would have passed her time. I’ve often wondered whether his mother knew my parents.

He tears into the room in his usual glorious disarray, cloak askew on his broad shoulders and cheeks flushed with excitement.

“You made it,” Simon says in a hushed voice. There’s something about his grin and his bright eyes that always makes me fear we’ll be caught, as though everyone is as drawn to him as I am and they’ll find us despite our stealth. “No guards, then?”

“There were guards,” I say. I can’t resist fixing his cloak for him, so I do. I’ll take any excuse to be near him. “They didn’t give me trouble, though. I don’t think they cared very much whether I left.”

“Works for me,” Simon says. “Ready to go?”

We slip back into the corridor and creep to the stairway. The wide stairs are polished stone, and we’ve long since learned to tread carefully and not let our footsteps echo through all four floors. On the ground floor we step to the side of the staircase, where an old tapestry is hung against the wall. I lift the corner for Simon to go, and then I follow him through the seemingly solid stone wall.

When we were boys this passage was great. It’s made of magic and roughly-hewn stone, and it gets its travellers to the destination very quickly despite the distance. But it is rather a tight fit. Two boys running through to sneak out to the town fit just fine. But two grown young men have to go single-file and bend uncomfortably.

“Ouch, fuck. I forgot it gets lower here.”

“Hurry up, will you? This hurts my neck.”

Quick as ever, it’s only a minute or two before we emerge through the side of the goatherd’s house and step into the frosty street on the edge of town.

We glance at each other. The moon is high and bright tonight, and it turns Simon’s curls from bronze to silver. We draw up our hoods and set out toward the square.

The music grows louder as we approach it. Every musician in the town must be playing, I hear strings and drums and horns and loud, joyous voices. Lanterns are hung on criss-crossing banners over the streets, casting gold candlelight down onto smiling faces and dancing couples. Simon eyes the lanterns. I see his gaze seeking out the places where each is attached overhead.

“Relax,” I tell him. “They’re fine.”

He swallows, narrowing his eyes at the flickering flames. “Of course. Just… you know.” He knocks my shoulder with his, and my heart thumps.

I brush his shoulder in return. “We’ll be careful,” I assure him. “I’ve made it this long.”

He shoots me a look. “I’ll relax after your birthday,” he says.

We weave through the laughing crowd down the street and to the edge of the square. Everything as far as my eye can see is decorated in the Pitch family black and gold, shining bright beneath the lantern light. The musicians are assembled on a stage built to encircle the fountain in the centre of the square. At each corner of the stage, lantern posts have been erected, wrapped in black and gold ribbons, to give light to the musicians and everyone dancing in the square.

Simon reappears at my side before I’ve noticed he’s vanished, and he hands me some kind of sweet-smelling beverage. I thank him and wrap both hands around it. It’s freezing out. No one seems to mind (no one seems to be sober, either) but I’m shivering despite my layers. The drink helps a great deal. It’s spicy and spiked. The first sip sends a warm shiver all the way down to my toes.

It makes me choke up, a bit. Everyone here is enjoying the revelry with their families, their friends. This is the very first time such a festival has been held, at least in my lifetime. Though rarely before has this particular circumstance happened. It’s rare for Archmages to need to step up and reign while the kingdom waits for the next ruler to come of age. It’s been generations since the last time this happened. There’s no love lost between the Archmage and I, and it would seem that perhaps the people also are none too fond of the interim monarch. And so, the festival. This celebration will carry on every night this week.

We hand off our steins as we finish our drinks, and then Simon takes my hand and pulls.

“Come on,” he says, and drags me through the crowd. I murmur excuses as I shoulder through people, though everyone seems drunken and giddy and entirely uncaring.

“Simon— what?” I say as I’m pulled along. “Where are we going?” I hiss.

He stops in the very thick of the dancing, though, I notice, about as far from the lantern posts as possible. He smiles at me.

“We’ve come all this way, haven’t we? Let’s dance.”

I’d like to think it’s the liquor that makes my cheeks heat and my heart race. I glance around at the people on all sides of me. Surely we’ll be noticed. We’re almost the only ones wearing hoods, someone will spot us and word will get back to the castle that we were here, or someone withmore malicious intent could see us and—

“Baz, whatever you’re thinking, stop. No one here is clear-headed right now. We blend right in.” Simon takes my other hand too, now, and tugs me toward him. I gulp.  
“Just for a few minutes, try to enjoy yourself,” he says, blue eyes boring into mine. “Dance with me.”

We grew up together, played together, fought with each other, comforted each other, relied on each other. There are no secrets between us, very few lines uncrossed. But we’ve never done this.

(Not that I haven’t wanted to.)

(For at least four years, not that I’m counting.)

He wraps an arm around my waist and I slide mine around his shoulders. My other hand is clasped tight in his. I’m dizzy and breathless before we even start moving, but then he’s spinning us around and swaying in time with the music and all I can do is hold onto him for dear life and try, as he instructed, to just enjoy myself.

I fix his hood when it starts to slip back off his head. He’s not quite as recognizable as me, certainly, but despite having no royal blood he’s known in general among the people as Prince Simon. I’ve always thought it suits him. He’s in every way golden and brazen and lovely. He’s no more a prince than the Archmage is a king, but it doesn’t matter in the least. He’s only grown more and more into the nickname. I loved watching it happen.

I know my castle well, yes. Better than the back of my hand. But I only know the castle half as well as I know the pattern of freckles and moles on Simon’s face.

He leans in, at one point, while the musicians strike up a new song. It’s noisy with laughter all around us, so he leans in close enough that I feel his breath on my ear.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs.

I can’t help but be contrary, so I reply, “It’s not for a few days yet.”

He narrows his eyes and gives me a playful shove. “Well I’ll hardly see you on your birthday, will I? As far as I care, it’s today. It’s all week, that’s what the festival’s for.”

I smile at him, because I can’t resist it. I want to thank him for coming with me, for making me dance, for all of it, but I don’t trust myself. I just let him lead our dance (he’s terrible, but I’m not complaining) and try to memorize every moment of it.

 

We stumble back through the passage and into the castle well after midnight, giddy and frozen.

“Shh, you’ll wake the whole castle,” I hiss at him. “How did you get so much mud on your cloak?”

“Dunno,” he mutters. We slip out of the stairway and into the corridor on the top floor. From here we’d normally go our separate ways. But.

“Come with me,” I say. “Vera doesn’t ask questions. Leave your cloak in my chamber so you don’t have to explain it.”

He nods, and creeps along with me back to the South wing. It’s dead silent in the castle, not a waking person to be found. We keep to the reassuring quiet of the carpeted main halls, and get to my chambers without incident. Whoever were sent to watch my doors have long since retired for the night.

The door clicks shut behind us. Simon sheds his muddy cloak and sets it aside.

“I’ll find you another one in the meantime,” I say. I have a chest full of warm cloaks. I open it up to find him a suitable one until his is returned, clean. Simon, while I’m looking, sinks down onto the edge of my bed.

“That was fun,” he says, and flops straight down onto his back. “I’m glad we went.”

I freeze with a folded cloak in my arms, watching him.

He’s spent plenty of time on my bed. We spent many an afternoon as children lying on our stomachs on my golden embroidered bedspread, reading and play fighting and enjoying each others’ company. We’ve spent as much time on each others’ beds as our own. But there’s something about the way his bronze curls touch the gold thread, so softly. How he looks with his eyes peacefully shut and a smile on his lips. It’s too much. I have to look away.

Being his friend was so much easier before I was in love with him.

(Did that time ever exist? Did I fall in love with him as an adolescent, or have I always been in love with him and just _realized_ it a few years ago?)

“Here.” I toss the cloak toward him and he lets it hit the bedspread next to his outstretched arm.

“Thanks,” he mutters, making no move to get up.

We used to fall asleep together all the time. I sleep best with someone else’s breathing breaking up the silence. It’s been years since the last time, and now I’m not sure I could take it.

“Don’t get caught on your way back to your chambers,” I say, because if I try to say anything else something soft will surely slip out. “I’ve used up all my cover stories for you.”

He turns his head toward me and just smiles, and _Merlin_ my stomach does a flip. Tonight has been perfect.

And then Simon sits bolt upright, staring wide-eyed at something over my shoulder.

A chill passes through me as I turn, and then I blink my eyes to clear them because I must be seeing things. But the cloudy, white form does not disappear. It just takes on a more clear shape, until I can make out a face I’ve only ever known from paintings.

“ _Basilton_ ,” whispers my mother. “ _Oh, my love, how you’ve grown._ ”

I can’t find my voice. I can’t feel my fingers. I can’t. There’s a sound behind me and just as I stumble back a step Simon’s hand connects with the small of my back, warm even through my cloak.

“Mother _,”_ I manage.

Natasha Pitch’s pearlescent hand reaches toward me and brushes a lock of hair from my forehead. “ _I wish I had more time,_ ” she says. I drink in her voice, her face. She’s tall— I never knew. “ _Basilton,_ ” she says again, and I shiver. “ _My killer walks._ ”

Simon’s hand presses into my back, or perhaps I’m leaning back into him. My blood runs cold. “What _?”_

“ _You must bring me peace. Penelope knows. Find her, please._ ”

I nod— frantically— trying to process what I’m hearing. “I will, mother. I will.” She starts to fade, growing more transparent with each passing moment.

“ _Your father and I are so proud of you,_ ” she whispers, and presses an ice-cold kiss to my temple. “ _I love you._ ”

“I love you,” I say back as she disappears.

I don’t notice the tears on my face until Simon brushes my cheek with his sleeve. And then my knees buckle, and he wraps me in a hug. I let my face fall to his shoulder and fight to keep my breaths even, to hold in my sobs, to not let him see me fall apart like this. He’s seen me cry before, more than anyone else has, but I don’t want him to see this. I can’t let go of him, though.

He mumbles in my ear while I cry.

“I’ll help you. We’ll avenge her. We’ll find this Penelope and fix everything. I promise.”

He holds me and I clutch him and we stay like that for ages, until there’s a too-sharp knock at my chamber door. We step apart and he moves to open it, but the door swings open before he can.

“Good evening,” says the Archmage, oh so smoothly. I swipe my hands under my eyes, trying to catch the tears, and glare at him. “Did you gentlemen enjoy your excursion?”


	2. Chapter 2

SIMON

 

The windowpane is icy against my forehead. I watch how the wind makes the Wavering Wood come alive while I shove the last of my breakfast in my mouth. The trees out there are skeletal, and they move like reaching fingers. The Wood is eerie in the winter, but I’ve always liked it. I’ve spent too many carefree afternoons running around in there to be afraid of it. The Wood is on my side. I was a Prince in the Wood long before the kingdom started calling me one.

I’m not. A prince, I mean. My father is the Archmage, not the king (though I’m not sure he knows that.) Officially I’m set to inherit the title of Duke of Something-or-Other, which was my father’s title before he became Archmage as a young man. I still don’t fully understand how he became Archmage— surely there were other candidates? And others with greater magic than he has, I’m sure. But that’s the way it is with my father. He gets what he wants.

And today he wants to punish us for disobeying him and going to the festival.

Someone pounds three times on my bedchamber door.

I don’t honour it with a reply, I just swing my legs off the window seat and pick up the tray they brought my breakfast on. Two guards blink at me when I open the door.

“Finished?” one asks me. I push the tray into his hands.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, as he walks away with my empty dishes. The remaining guard raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m not a child anymore,” I say.

“I’m just following orders,” he replies.

“Baz never gets locked in his chambers.” I can hear how childish I sound as I speak. Right after I complained about being treated like a child. I grimace.

The guard sighs. “His grace is the Prince, my lord,” he says. “It is difficult to keep the prince locked in his chambers.”

“That’s hardly fair,” I grumble. “We have important things to do.”

“Indeed,” says a sharp, cool voice, and the guard and I both look up to see Baz himself coming down the corridor, absently adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. A pair of guards follow him, a little ways behind. “Are you ready then, Simon? We’d best get started.”

He’s as irritatingly unruffled as ever. Despite everything that happened last night he looks just as regal and princely as anything. Fine garments tailored and smoothed, hair loose about his shoulders in a way that has no right looking as handsome as it does, brows arched high as he stares down the guard at my door.

“I’m under orders, your grace,” says the guard. “Lord Simon is to remain in his chambers.”

Baz doesn’t even blink. “You have new orders. Lord Simon is to come with me. Immediately.”

He tilts his chin just slightly, barely even a movement, and even I, his lifelong friend and closest confidant, am beyond intimidated. I pity the poor guard having to stare him down.

The guard makes a wise choice. “Of course, your grace.” And he leaves.

Baz watches silently until the guard has turned the corner at the far end of the hall, and they his grey eyes flick over to me.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s go.” He starts off down the corridor toward the North wing, trusting that I will follow. And of course I do.

I hurry to catch up to him, and we fall in step together. His jaw is set this morning in a way I’m all too familiar with. Nothing will be standing in his way today.

“What’s with them?” I ask, nodding my head toward the pair of silent guards following us about ten steps behind.

Baz scowls. “The Archmage has gotten more creative.”

“You weren’t just banished to your chambers like I was?”

He glances over at me. “Unfortunately, no. I shouldn’t be surprised, it’s never worked before. These insufferable fools have to ‘keep an eye’ on me all day.”

Oh. “Won’t that be… inconvenient?” I try to insinuate my deeper meaning. We have highly sensitive research to do today, and the last thing we need is watchdogs reporting our every activity back to the Archmage.

He huffs. “Incredibly so. But we will manage. Hurry up.”

“Where are we going?” I ask. The guards scurry to keep up with us.

“The library, obviously. Can you move any faster? I don’t want to lose the daylight.”

“It’s barely dawn. We couldn’t have more daylight ahead of us.”

“Shut up, Simon,” he snaps. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I wouldn’t notice the amusement in his eyes. 

 

I’ve never particularly liked reading, but I’ve always loved the library anyway. It would be hard not to. It’s all grand pine shelves with pastoral carvings on the sides, and great big arched windows, and splendidly soft chairs just begging to be napped in. There’s a tremendous gilded hearth on one end, too, with a cozy settee before it, but I’ve never much liked fireplaces. Not with Baz around. It seems not worth the risk.

Also, to have it lit anywhere near him would go against the express orders of the late His Majesty the King Consort. It was King Consort Malcolm’s last wish before his untimely death of heartbreak that no flame ever be within reach of his son. At least, not until the sun sets on his eighteenth birthday— just a few days off.

It hasn’t posed much of an issue, really, as far as things go. Baz has never particularly needed to spend any time in the kitchen or near the ovens, and whenever he enters a room with a fire in the hearth the flame is promptly put out. The greatest inconvenience has been to Baz himself, who for nearly eighteen years has strained his eyes reading books by moonlight instead of candlelight, and freezing under mountains of blankets on cold winter nights with no fire to heat his chambers.

I’ve seen him light candles on rare and dire occasions. Urgent sneaking matters, or important late-night reading. More than once I’ve blown out candles moments after he lit them. He’s always been less careful with his own mortality than anyone around him.

Vera is in the library when we enter. She sets down her feather duster and hurries straight to the fireplace, where a blaze is crackling merrily away and throwing golden light around.

“Your grace, Lord Simon,” she says in greeting as she douses the fire.

I see Baz’s eyes take in every moment of the flames hissing out. (He told me once, when we were boys, how much he’d love to warm his hands by the fire the way others do. He said it seemed so lovely. And his hands are always cold.)

The guards follow us in and, mercifully, take up places on either side of the double doors. They do not escort us to the bookshelves.

Baz leads us to his favourite among the multitude of tables in the library, and sets down a pair of books he’d had tucked under his elbow. I recognize his mother’s old notebooks. They accompanied us during many an investigation in our youth.

“And what are you looking for today, your grace?” Vera asks distractedly as she picks up her feather duster once more. We owe so much to Vera. She has so kindly avoided finding out anything that we’ve done that the Archmage would disapprove of, excused herself suddenly from many a room so that we could keep on with whatever the tomfoolery of the day was. Even calmly lent a hand in our pursuits of solving mysteries, always in a manner that indicated she did not care in the least why we asked for her input. She has helped us clean up our messes, let us hide our contraband, willingly ignored our sneaking around, so long as we were always safe. I cannot count how many times she has patched up an injury on each of us without asking how or why we came to acquire it. Vera is a treasure.

“We have need of someone named Penelope,” Baz says. “Any suggestion as to who she could be, or where we might start to look for her?”

Vera pauses and turns around. She eyes us with interest, as always, but by now we trust her with anything. “Penelope?” she repeats.

“Yes,” we say in unison.

Her face softens, and she looks at us in that we she used to when we were very small and would come to her when we were sad. That look I’ve come to realize means that we’re approaching her for something which another boy would bring to his parents.

She comes toward us and brushes a speck of dust from Baz’s velvet sleeve. Then she sets her hand on his shoulder. No one else would dare initiate such casual contact with the future king. When it comes to Vera, I know Baz welcomes it.

“Basilton,” she says, once again breaking every rule of propriety. Baz does not mind. “Penelope is the mage who gave you your gift.”

Baz and I glance at each other. I shrug. His eyes flick back to Vera.

“My gift?” he asks.

She closes her eyes for a moment. Then she shakes her head, just a little. “That man was supposed to raise you. To tell you these things.”

The Archmage, of course. But he barely raised me, his own son, let alone the son of the late Queen.

Vera gestures, and Baz and I sit at the table. I take my usual place on his right. An S is scratched into the fine old carved armrest of this chair, from many hours spent here as a child.

Vera glances once at the guards, still standing like sentries at the library doors. They’re far enough away and definitely disinterested enough that I doubt we’re very much at risk of being overheard.

“When children are born in the royal family,” Vera says, “a mage is summoned to grant the infant a gift. Something only a mage could give, such as musical talent, or beauty.”

Baz’s sharp grey stare is unwavering. “What was mine?” he asks, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

Vera smiles sadly. “I wish I could tell you. Only those present during the gifting ever know, unless they go on to tell others.”

“Well who was there?” I ask.

“The attendance is always the same,” she says. “Just the infant, the mage, and the parents.”

I don’t have to look at Baz. I can feel his disappointment like it’s my own. (Perhaps by now it is.)

“How can we find Penelope?” he asks.

Vera chews her lip. “Well, she would have been asked here by Queen Natasha. Surely there’s a record of her somewhere.” She squints off to the side.

Baz draws in a measured breath, looking a great deal more collected than I know he is. “It’s rather important that I speak with her. Not about the gift, though I’m interested in that as well.”

His hands are folded tight on the table. Vera sees them and smiles at him.

“Let me see what I can do,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

She rises from the table and is brushing past the guards and out of the library before we can blink.

“That woman is a saint,” Baz murmurs, and I cannot agree more. And then he’s pushing away from the table too, and stalks toward the far wall of shelves.

“Baz?” I follow him. He reaches up and pulls a huge dusty book from a high shelf. He’s not much taller than me but he’s all limbs, so with his long bloody legs and arms together his reach well surpasses mine. He cradles the book in one arm like it’s precious while he continues, plucking more ancient tomes and adding them to his armload. When it gets inconveniently tall he shoves the stack into my arms and keeps going.

I know better than to ask too many questions of him in a time like this. I take the stack to our table and then return to him for my next load.

We settle back in at the table and he hands me a book to start on. _Royal Lineage and Rites of Passage._ I don’t ask and he doesn’t direct, but I dive in with my eyes scanning for anything to do with gifting ceremonies.

 

It’s nearly lunch when Baz slams his book closed and gets up. He paces a circle and loops back the table, and then sets his hands on the back of his abandoned chair, hunching his shoulders. His long fingers drum against the wood.

“We’ll find her,” I say. “Or, Vera will. We’ll figure it out. We’ve barely started, we’ll—”

“I know,” he snaps, and then his eyes flick over to me apologetically. “I know. It’s just— fuck. You were there. You know.”

I nod. “Yes.” His jaw is clenched and he’s all angles and tension. I want to reach out and soothe him. (I wouldn’t dare.He’d bite my head off.) “And— um. Speaking of. How are— that is, well, how are you? We haven’t really spoken about...”

He looks at me. There’s a silver gleam in his eyes that’s so acutely familiar to me from eighteen years of us learning to communicate without speech. Sometimes it makes me shiver, knowing that no one else in the world knows him as well as I do, and no one knows me as well as him.

How is he, indeed.

He knows I know what he’d say. So he doesn’t need to say it. But he stills his fingers, and his lips press together a little.

His voice comes out soft, low. “I met my mother,” he says, as though he hardly believes it. “She visited me.”

I turn a little more toward him. “She said she loves you. She’s proud of you.” And I recall, “Her and your father both.”

Baz nods and closes his eyes. Able to resist it no longer, I go to him. He would shove me off if I hugged him ( _especially_ given last night) so I throw an arm around his neck and just lean into him. He lets his head hang, just a little, and I tip my head toward his slightly until I can feel the softness of his hair. His pale hands clench the chair back. He smells like the Wood, like wind and trees.

Every now and then it strikes me that he is the future king. As in, he _will_ be king. My oldest friend Baz is the crown prince of our kingdom, and someday he will be king. Except now, that day is nearly upon us. I can count on my fingers how many days he has left as prince. This melancholy boy pressed against me is my king. His Royal Majesty King Basilton III. And here we are leaning on each other, missing our mothers and his father that we never knew and suddenly saddled with the duty of avenging the murder of a beloved Queen.

I used to worry that things would change after his coronation. That our friendship would fall aside once governing becomes Baz’s priority. But I haven’t worried about that for ages. We’re all we have. I know we’ll stick together as I know I dream at night. Nothing is as certain as the two of us.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support for this story so far!! I'm having a lot of fun writing it. It was planned to come in three parts, but I think it's going to be five. I haven't written a chaptered fic before so I didn't anticipate how much it's gotten away from me! All updates will come quickly, though.  
> Hope you enjoy, and happy birthday Penny!

BAZ

 

The path I walk is one I’ve walked a thousand times before. On every side of me, trees stand old and twisted and splendid. The leaves are resplendent in late-fall colours, as burning and bright as the flames I’ve feared all my life, shocking against the bone-pale trunks. The wind is loud in the leaves, and behind the rustling is the sound of laughter, footfalls, cheers. The sound of boyhood and friendship and freedom. The sound of afternoons long past.

Someone walks at my side. I cannot look, cannot see him, but I hear his footsteps and feel his presence as sure as the leaves are bold. We walk through the Wavering Wood, walk through the sounds of beloved memories. I know who I would see, were I able to turn and look.

Blue eyes. Bronze curls.

Simon is in all of my dreams.

 

I blink awake uncomfortably cold and with a crick in my neck. There’s grey afternoon light coming in the window. I’m half-slumped and alone on a velvet settee, with an ancient and invaluable book lying open face-down on my lap. I push myself up to a more dignified sitting position and tilt my neck, wincing.

“Prince Basilton,” says Vera, who I did not realize was also here. I twist around to see her. I haven’t so much as crossed paths with her since yesterday morning when she vanished to look into Penelope. “Forgive me,” she says, “did I wake you?”

I shake my head. It hurts my neck. “No. I must have drifted off reading.”

“Where is Lord Simon?” Vera asks.

“His father requested they go riding. Or, at least, that’s where he was before I fell asleep.”

Simon’s schedule has been getting busier, what with all the inhabitants of the castle gearing up for the coronation. Oddly enough, I’ve been consulted on very few of the matters. It would seem the Archmage has no desire to involve me more than necessary. In the arrangement of _my own coronation_.

At least I have many members of staff and the administration whom I trust. And no one would dare do anything to taint or jeopardize my coronation. If not for me or for the kingdom, at least for my mother’s legacy.

Vera snaps me back to the present. I blink some sleep from my eyes.

“You might go and find him,” she says. “Penelope is on her way.”

What? “Penelope? You found her?”

Vera nods and rebalances a precarious book heap on a nearby table. “I did. I sent word to her yesterday, and I’ve just been informed that she’s on her way. Now.”

Now. Penelope is coming now. My mother gave me one message and one duty and Penelope is coming _now_ to help me do it. My heart races. I stand up, no longer foggy with sleep but buzzing with energy. Vera waves me off when I start gathering up the books I have strewn about.

“I can re-shelve those,” she says. She gives me a warm smile. “Go find Simon.”

I’m frozen in place, just staring at her. She’ll never know how much she’s done for me. “Thank you,” I say, feeling foolish and insufficient. “For everything. Vera. Thank you, I—”

“Go,” she repeats. I have half a mind to hug her, but I have no idea how I’d begin to do that. I just meet her eyes once more, hoping that she’ll see it all in mine. And then I scoop up my mother’s notebooks and set out for Simon.

 

Someone I pass in the corridor says that the Archmage returned from his ride some time ago, so I don’t bother beginning to scour the extensive grounds in case Simon is out with his horse. I hurry all around, keeping myself poised and focused because something about how it makes me look causes people to leap out of my way as I approach them. He’s not in his chambers, or mine (worth a shot, and I drop off the notebooks), or by the back stables.

Wait— I’m an idiot.

The kitchens are on the ground floor, in the West wing. I’ve seldom had need to visit them— my meals are served on schedule and are always plenty filling— but Simon is known to frequent the pantry and the cooks in search of something delicious.

Sound bubbles out through the heavy door like a pot boiling over, and it only gets louder when I throw open the door and step inside.

The first thing I notice is the scent. Heavenly aromas overcome my senses, and my mouth waters.

The second thing I notice is the fire. Just next to me, in the ovens, flames licking out the sides behind iron grates. In a pan to my right, where some grease has caught alight and is burning and spitting and throwing oil.

I’m frozen, rooted to the ground.

There’s a shout, and someone grabs me, and I’m pulled forward, further into the kitchen and away from the flames. A lid slams down over the pan, smothering the blaze, but the ovens flicker on.

The Archmage stands before me, his hands on the tops of my arms. His mouth looks stern but his eyes are mocking. Over his shoulder, I see Simon sitting at the chopping block.

“Be careful, your grace,” croons the Archmage. “We wouldn’t want something to happen to you.”

I want to shout at him. I want to hit him. But my voice is gone.

He tilts his head to the side, and I’ve never detested him more. “We keep fire away from you because your father made sure everyone knew. He wanted to make sure that no harm could ever befall his son.” I hate him for talking about my father. The Archmage grins at me. “But how can we keep you safe if you put yourself in harm’s way?”

My voice is trapped in my throat, I can _feel_ it, it’s a lump I’m swallowing around. But my body comes back to me.

I shake the Archmage’s hands from me.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“You might thank me for saving you,” the Archmage says.

It takes every ounce of my restraint to not whirl on him. I keep still. I lock my eyes on Simon’s hands, gripping the edge of the chopping block like he’s waiting for a reason to leap to his feet. “There would be no danger from which to save me,” I say, and my voice comes out fine, “if you had managed to _break_ the curse, as you’ve been tasked with. _”_

 _“_ These things take time.”

“It’s been _eighteen years.”_

“Undoing another mage’s work is difficult. Forgive me, your grace, I am no miracle worker.”

“No, only the Archmage to the royal family. Magic is your _job.”_

There’s a long, tense moment. And then the Archmage turns to one of the cooks and starts inquiring about some aspect of the menu for the coronation feast.

I look to Simon. His hair is tousled from riding and I long to put my hands in it. I gesture minutely with my head, and he understands as he always does and follows me promptly from the kitchen. I give the oven a wide berth on my way toward the door.

Just a few more days, I remind myself.

“What did you find?” Simon asks as soon as we’re in the quiet corridor.

“I found nothing,” I tell him, picking up the pace. He matches me. I’m not sure where to go but I’m putting my faith in Vera that Penelope will be given instructions upon her arrival. I head toward my chambers, and my private sitting room. This will hardly be a conversation for the usual receiving room. “Vera did. Penelope will be here shortly.”

Simon makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a gasp. “Vera,” he says fondly, and I completely agree.

My sitting room is immense and beautiful. A door to the side leads to my study, and beyond that my bedchambers. Sky-high windows overlook the Wavering Wood, visible though it sprawls mainly beyond the East wing, and the turrets and balconies of floors below. The main wall is dominated by a grand hearth. It hasn’t been lit in my lifetime.

Simon sinks into his usual chair and I settle onto the green velvet settee.We look at each other. He rests his forearms on his knees.

“What do you think she’ll say?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “As far as the kingdom knows, the men who killed my mother are dead.” I pause. “As far as _I_ knew,” I add.

“I believe your mother,” Simon says. “We’ll follow this as far as we can, no matter what.”

I nod.

And then the door opens and one of the staff steps in to introduce “A Lady Penelope Bunce, your grace.”

We rise, and she steps into my sitting room.

Immediately I think that this woman is far too young to have been present at my birth.

She has brown skin and long hair and wears pointed spectacles. Simon and I are tall, I know, but we positively dwarf her. She looks warm and friendly, except for the scrutinizing look in her eye.

“Your grace,” she says, and dips her head respectfully.

“Call me Basilton,” I tell her, because I want her on my side— whatever that might mean. “Thank you for coming. Please,” I say, ushering her in, “come in. This is Simon.”

She nods to him. “Pleasure to meet you both. I expected I’d hear from you eventually, Prince Basilton.”

We arrange ourselves in our seats. Simon is fidgeting, which I cannot blame him for because I’m putting all of my effort into keeping my hands from shaking.

_She’s here, mother. I’m doing as you asked._

Penelope folds her hands neatly in her lap. She wears a ring set with a purple stone. She looks at me expectantly, and I open my mouth to speak but I don’t know where to begin.

“I’ll get right to it,” I say. The story is far-fetched as is. I’d like to get everything in the open quickly and guage her reaction. “Two nights ago I was visited by my mother, Queen Natasha.”

I watch Penelope carefully for any reaction. I see none.

I continue. “Her message was brief. She told me her killer walks, and that I should find you.”

Amazingly, Penelope nods.

“Yes,” she says. “I told as much to the King, after the assassination.”

Simon speaks up. “Then why hasn’t anyone done anything?”

I’m bewildered at how this doesn’t seem to be news to her. Though, I suppose my mother did tell me that Penelope knew, so perhaps I shouldn’t be confused. But I am.

She meets my eyes with a level, piercing look as she speaks. “It should be obvious to any mage worth their salt that the men who carried out the murder were not the ones behind it.”

I am actually not very familiar with how the events played out. “In what way?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow at me, and I suddenly understand why people follow my orders when I do that. “Well, for starters, they did not cast your curse. They only released it.”

“I’m confused,” says Simon, echoing my thoughts.

Penelope carries on. “Which was part of why giving you your gift was so challenging. It would have been much easier if I knew the mage whose magic I was working against.”

That stops me cold. “Excuse me?”

She blinks at me, and there’s a pause. “I get the feeling,” she says, “that we do not have all the same information.”

Simon huffs. It sounds almost like a laugh. I’m so glad he’s here.

“I have to agree,” I say.

Penelope’s expression softens, somewhat. “If you don’t mind, I could show you the events of that day.”

Simon’s eyes flick to me. This is my choice. They’re giving me the option to not witness my mother’s murder, which I appreciate, but I don’t think we can continue until I do.

I nod. “Show us.”

Penelope procures a sphere of clear crystal from seemingly thin air.

“Where—?” Simon starts. Penelope just shoots him a look. Her too-young face is mischievous. (Really. She looks practically our age. But I have no doubts that she is the same mage.)

“You’ll have to look closely,” she says, holding the crystal out. Simon moves to share my settee, and we lean in toward Penelope, and the truth she holds in her hands.

First, the crystal is transparent and colourless. And then the room starts to take form.

 

_Penelope is lead through the tall doors into a grand room, nearly empty. The receiving room of the nursery suite is smaller than the regular one, though no less opulent. The twin thrones against the back wall, up on their dais, were gifts to a Queen many generations ago. They sit empty. The Queen and King Consort instead stand on either side of the gilded bassinet at the base of the steps._

_The carpet beneath Penelope’s feet is deepest gold with green filigree. Her footsteps are muffled in the thick pile, and with no music to receive guests as there would usually be, the most prominent sound is the little sniffling of the infant prince. The Queen and King Consort smile as Penelope draws near. She curtsies._

_“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” she greets them, and Queen Natasha takes her hands._

_“Thank you for coming, Penelope,” she says. Her voice is captivating. “We are grateful that you have continued to give your gifts to so many generations of our family.”_

_“It is my honour,” Penelope says. She steps to the side of the bassinet and peers inside at the prince, sleeping peacefully. A corner of the white blanket is clenched tight in his little fist._

_“My gift to you, Prince Basilton,” she says, “I have given careful thought.” She lifts her hand, where the purple gemstone shines on her finger._

_And at the front end of the hall, the doors fly open._

_For a moment, there is only confusion. Surely the three young men are turned around, and have stumbled into the wrong room. But there is a shout in the corridor, and a scuffle, and before anyone else can follow them in, one man throws the doors shut and shoves an iron rod between the handles, barring them closed. The other two run towards the Queen and King and Penelope._

_The guards stationed outside the receiving room rattle the doors, trying to come in. They holler to the Queen that they are coming, please be safe._

_“Malcolm,” whispers the Queen. “Take Basilton and run.”_

_He does. He scoops up the tiny prince from the bassinet and runs for the rear door as one of the strangers follows him. It’s locked. They are trapped inside. Each of the men points a weapon at one of them._

_They don’t look like assassins. They are trembling, hesitant._

_“Who are you?” Queen Natasha demands. Malcolm, backed into the corner with the infant, is dragged back toward the bassinet, toward the other two intruders._

_The man with his sword pointed at the Queen shakes his head. There is screaming in the corridor. The doors shake. Penelope starts to edge back toward the doors, to open them, but the third stranger turns to her, brandishing a gleaming dagger._

_“If you want the child to live, do not move.”_

_Queen Natasha pales, but her expression shows only ferocity. “How dare you threaten my son.”_

_“We’re here to give him a gift,” he says._

_“You’ll do no such thing.” And the Queen has a dagger in her own hand, too._

_Everything happens so quickly._

_One stranger pulls something from his pocket and throws it to the ground. Glass shatters, and a snakelike plume of smoke rises from it and flies toward the bundle in Malcolm’s arms. Queen Natasha screams, and runs to intercept it. A blade is pressed to Penelope’s throat. Malcolm turns, trying to shield his child from the curse. It reaches the infant anyway, and Natasha screams again as she stumbles to her knees, the handle of a dagger protruding from her back._

_“What have you done?” Malcolm roars. He lunges toward Natasha, but his attacker holds him back. “What have you done?”_

_“The curse is simple,” says the man who released it. “Before the sun sets on his eighteenth birthday, Prince Basilton will be burned by a flame, and he will die.”_

_“No!” cry the Queen and King. Penelope sobs, and her attacker presses his blade closer into her neck._

_The assassin steps toward the Queen once again. She twists away from him, crying out in pain, and he yanks the dagger out of her back and plunges it in once again. He attempts a third time, but she catches him by the arm and drags him down. Her own dagger finds its mark in his chest. He collapses to the gold carpet, blood staining it black._

_The doors burst open, at long last, and soldiers and guards pour in. The two other attackers are seized and dragged away. Several guards rush to the Queen’s aid, but she waves them off. Penelope, released, drops to Natasha’s side. Natasha’s bloodied hand grips her sleeve._

_“Help Basilton,” she pleads. “Do something. Don’t let my son be killed.”_

_“Your Majesty,” someone says. “You are wounded— we need a healer—”_

_“Please!” shouts Natasha. “There’s nothing to be done for me.” She coughs, and blood spatters her hands. “Help my son.”_

_Malcolm, infant in hands, collapses at his wife’s side. He holds her, too, crying._

_Slowly, the soldiers step back. They all retreat from the room, giving the family and Penelope the space that the Queen demands._

_Queen Natasha strokes her son’s face with one hand. His blanket collects her blood._

_“Penelope,” the Queen whispers. She lays her head on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Please. His gift, I beg of you. Do not let this curse take my son.”_

_Penelope raises her shaking hands, her ring. “I will try. I cannot undo another mage’s magic, but I will do what I can.”_

_Natasha smiles tearfully. Malcolm buries his face in her hair, pressing kiss after kiss to her temple and her cheek. They hold their child together._

_Penelope thinks, long and hard. And finally, as Queen Natasha’s breaths get shallower, as she wheezes and coughs, Penelope speaks._

_“It isn’t much, but it is the best I can give. My gift to Prince Basilton is this. Before the sun sets on his eighteenth birthday, he will be burned by a flame. That much is certain. But he will instead fall eternally asleep.”_

_“Thank you,” gasps the Queen. “How shall he awaken?”_

_“The way any curse is lifted,” Penelope says. “True Love’s Kiss.”_

_Queen Natasha kisses her son’s forehead. “Thank you, Penelope.” Malcolm echoes her._

_Penelope begins to rise to her feet. “I’m sorry I cannot help more. Or help you, my Queen.”_

_“I understand,” says Natasha._

_“Curses and gifts,” says Penelope, “are some of the only things magic is good for. I cannot gift you health, not now, but I can gift you peace.”_

_And Natasha relaxes, just some. She bleeds, still, turning her gown dark with her life blood. But she breathes easier, holds her son, murmurs words of love to her husband. Penelope leaves out of respect. Outside the room, the guards and soldiers and castle staff who raced to their aid, stand vigil with bowed heads as the Queen spends her last moments with her family._

 

The image fades from Penelope’s crystal ball, and my ears ring with the silence. I’m grateful that we had to gather close to watch. Simon has moved even closer in the last few minutes, and the side of his leg presses against mine. He’s warm, and it grounds me.

I never knew the whole story. My father would have told it to someone, but it never was passed on to me. My head is swimming— there’s so much to think through— thoughts of my mother and her bravery and my parents and their love and the family I should have had.

I clear my throat. “You’re right,” I say. “It’s obvious. They were working for someone else.”

Simon coughs, next to me, and shifts a little, stretching. I hope he knows I’m thankful that he’s not trying to comfort me, not making me think more about it just now.

Penelope nods. “The King would have told someone how it happened. I know he passed shortly after, but he would have told someone.” She tucks the crystal ball away (where, I’m not sure.) “But whoever he told must have kept it to themself, or it would be common knowledge.”

“The curse,” whispers Simon, voicing the thing that was nagging my mind, as well. “It— you— I mean, it’s not—”

I interrupt him to save him the words. “I only knew about the original curse,” I say. The news of Penelope’s gift has changed my world. “They told me it was my father’s dying wish that fire never be near me, because I would die.”

Penelope shakes her head. “That wouldn’t have worked, anyway. The curse wasn’t _if_ you touch a flame, it was that you _will._ My gift doesn’t change that.”

My heart pounds. Everything I thought, everything I knew, is different. I’ve been avoiding fire all my life in the hopes of outlasting the curse, but all this time it’s been my destiny.

“The coronation is on my birthday,” I say. “It’s in two days.” Two days left for the curse to find me.

“What was it,” Simon says, his voice quieter than usual and somewhat hoarse, “about the cure?”

“True Love’s Kiss,” I echo. Penelope nods. “How does it work?” I ask her.

Penelope chews her lip. “Looking back,” she says, “I wish there had been another way to get around your curse.”

“Why?” I ask.

She steels herself and meets my eyes. I get the feeling that she is a woman who sugarcoats nothing. “True Love’s Kiss is the ultimate breaker of curses,” she says, which I knew. “But, of course, it relies on the cursed person having a True Love.”

“What makes a True Love?” Simon asks. His leg is bouncing up and down the way it does when he’s stressed.

“Your True Love would be the person you love with all your heart,” Penelope says. I know exactly who I love with all my heart— he’s sitting next to me. She continues, “Who you love truly and completely, and who loves you just as deeply in return.”

I tremble. Penelope presses her lips together, as though she knows what question I’ll ask next. I already think I know the answer.

I’m dizzy. I make myself breathe. “And if I don’t have a True Love?” I ask. Simon glances sharply at me. “What happens then?”

She speaks in facts. I’m glad for it. “Then my gift will not work.”

“Baz will die?” Simon whispers. “No falling asleep, just—?”

Penelope nods. “The original curse will stand.”

I breathe. And breathe. And breathe.

I may as well now, because I only get to keep doing so for two more days. If that.

“Do you know who sent the assassins?” I ask.

“No,” says Penelope. “Just that they were sent.”

I nod. “Thank you for your help. If you’ll excuse me.”

I take the side door from my sitting room, through my study to my bedchambers. I need space, need to think, need Simon to not witness how I’m about to fall apart. I just watched my mother die.

I know I love someone the way Penelope described, wholeheartedly and truly and completely. But no one loves me the same way.

I wouldn’t change the life I’ve had for anything— I wouldn’t give up a minute of Simon’s friendship even if it meant making room for someone who might love me as I love them. If this is all I get, at least my best memories are all of him.

I collapse on my bed and clutch my mother's notebooks close to my chest. I close my eyes and wish for that dream, the one I’ve dreamed over and over. Just let me walk in the Wood with Simon at my side. If I’m to die, let me have peace.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Either there will be one gigantic chapter after this, or I lied before and there will be six chapters- we'll see! Thanks again for the support and feedback so far, it means so much to me.  
> Enjoy these melancholy boys before it all goes down, ft. Very Oblivious Simon

SIMON

 

“Are you _blind?”_ my father snaps. The servant cowers, black and gold bunting clutched in his hands. “It’s crooked. All of it. Fix it at once.” He turns to me as the servant runs off. “Everyone is incompetent.”

I cover a yawn with my hand. “Of course, father,” I say, expressionless.

He gestures around at the throne room, half-assembled but nonetheless resplendent in Pitch colours. “What do you think of it all? It’s coming together, finally.”

I nod. “Mm hmm.” I hide another yawn.

“And where the hell is the Prince? He was meant to be at his fitting hours ago.”

I shrug.

“Are you quite all right, Simon?” my father asks, frowning. “You look dead on your feet.”

My stomach turns over.

I mumble something about feeling unwell, and he frowns deeper. “Go rest, my son. I hope you’ll be feeling well for the coronation tomorrow.”

My feet lead me away and I nearly knock into the servants dusting Queen Natasha’s portrait.

“Sorry,” I mutter, and escape to the corridor.

I haven’t slept, to be honest. I spent the whole night on the floor outside Baz’s bedchamber door. I pounded on it, begged him to let me in just for a moment so that we could talk. I know he heard me and I know he thinks that avoiding me is in some way in my best interest. That or he was embarrassed to be upset and didn’t want me to see him, but I don’t accept that. We’ve been through too much. I was there when he was fourteen and angry all the time, I was there when he was nine and melancholy, I was there when he was six and plagued with nightmares without a parent to soothe him to sleep. If he thinks he can push me away now, in what might be his last days, he’s wrong.

On that note, I refuse to believe Penelope. I trust her completely, despite not knowing her before yesterday, and I know she speaks the truth. But I can’t believe that the curse has to come to fruition, that Baz _has_ to be burned by fire. I won’t believe it. I won’t. I can’t.

Every time I think of that conversation I get angry. The kind of anger that bubbles up in my stomach and my throat and behind my eyes and makes me gasp. I don’t know why— it’s not even just knowing that Baz’s life is in danger. That’s been the case forever, and if he survived eighteen years he can survive until tomorrow at sundown. It’s the gift. That if he were to be burned by fire— which he _won’t,_ dammit— whether or not he would survive depends on if he has a True Love. How the hell is that fair? And if he doesn’t have one he just _dies?_

He asked about that, as though he knows for sure he has no True Love. And true, I’ve never known him to fancy anyone (though many a visiting lady and foreign prince has certainly had eyes for him) but it doesn’t seem right that that’s the reason he shouldn’t live.

And if he does? If somehow he’s burned and falls asleep, and his True Love comes to wake him— what then? Do they just love each other, get married, grow old together? Would they become his Consort, ruling at his side, sleeping in his bed?

I’ve never imagined anyone else in his future. And now that I have, I can’t stand it.

They would be the one to listen to his every musing, talk him down when he’s angry, read his expressions and know his heart. Do all those things that _I do,_ that I’ve done all our lives. With someone else there, where would that leave me? Leave us?

I don’t even realize that my feet have carried me to Baz’s chambers until I’m there. Vera is there, setting a tray of food down on the ground next to one that must have been from breakfast. It’s untouched. She leaves the new one and picks up the other.

“Good afternoon, Lord Simon,” she says, noticing me. “Are you well?”

I glance at Baz’s door. “I’ve been better. And yourself?”

She holds the tray with one hand and touches my arm with the other. “I’d feel better if I knew the Prince was eating. Perhaps you can persuade him.”

He’d have to let me in first. But I don’t mention that. “Thank you again for all your help,” I say. She’s got brown eyes— the warmest brown I’ve ever seen. “Not just with Penelope and all of this— everything.”

Vera just smiles. She looks tired, too. “The seamstress is waiting for him, if he’ll come out. See if you can get him to eat,” she says again, and heads off with the breakfast tray.

I stoop to pick up the new one, and I bang on the door with my fist.

“Baz. Let me in.”

No response. I try the handle, but of course it’s locked.

Fine. There’s more than one way in. I try the door further down the corridor— his sitting room. I pound on that door, too, but when I try the handle the door swings open.

Baz stands before the dark fireplace, arms folded. He glances up at me as I come in.His gold skin is pale, and there are dark circles around his eyes.

“I thought I’d locked that one,” he mutters, and turns his attention back to the hearth. I kick the door shut behind me and put the tray down too harshly on a table. Some of the dishes rattle a little. 

“Merlin, Simon,” Baz says. “Calm down.”

“Stop that,” I bark. “Vera says you’re not eating.”

He shrugs, like I do, and it sends a bolt of anger through me. “I haven’t been hungry.”

“I don’t care. You need to eat something.”

He turns, fast, and his grey eyes today are dark silver. They are as sharp and cutting as a blade. “What’s gotten into you?” he snaps.

“What’s gotten into _you?”_ I retort. I clench my hands at my sides.

He takes a step nearer to me. “What the hell do you _think?_ After all we found out yesterday—”

“Yes, Baz, after all we found out yesterday— you’re just shutting yourself in, keeping us out? Not taking care of yourself?”

“Thank you for your _concern._ I find out I’m destined to die by tomorrow night and you want me to _entertain you?”_

 _“_ Fuck, no! That’s a load of shit—”

“Care to enlighten me, then?” 

“What the hell is going on?” I cry. Baz stares at me, face pinched in a snarl. I’m practically shaking— my heart is hammering and I’m breathing hard. Why are we angry— why are we fighting with each other?

I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice low. “This is awful. _Believe me,_ I know. There’s a chance that you’ll die by tomorrow night, or you might not get burnt at all or maybe you’ll fall asleep and get woken up by your True Love—”

“That won’t happen.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We do.”

“Fuck, Baz, fine. But there’s no way to know for sure.” He rolls his eyes at me, but I keep going. “In any case, there’s a castle full of people getting ready for your coronation tomorrow, and they need you to keep going as if it’s happening. There’s no sense spending today like you’re dying, when it’s completely possible that you’re not.”

“Simon—”

“Shut up.” I step closer to him, crowd him. His eyes dart all over my face. They linger on my mouth, like he can’t meet my eyes. “I know you’re scared and you’re angry.” He glares at me then, but I glare right back. “But so am I, dammit, so don’t take it out on me.”

Baz raises an eyebrow at me. I hate that he can do that. “ _You’re_ scared?” he says.

My hands fly up of their own volition. I’m fucking exasperated. I force my hands into fists and bring them back in, and they knock lightly against Baz’s chest. I don’t know why they’re there, but I can’t move them. I stare at them.

“ _Yes,_ I’m scared, you arse. My best mate might be dying.”

I don’t mention the other thing I’m scared of (because I am scared of it, I think.)

I force myself away from that line of thought. Both of them. All of the frightening things.

“Anyway,” I murmur. I can feel Baz’s eyes on my face, but I keep watching my hands where they sit against his shirt. “We have a murder to avenge, and a coronation to prepare.”

I knock one fist against Baz again and go to pull away, but his hands come up and wrap around my wrist, locking me in place. His fingers are freezing.

“Wait,” he whispers. There’s a tremble in his voice. “If— hear me out, please— if I _do_ die.”

“Baz.”

“Please.”

I look up at his eyes, and they’re not blade-coloured anymore, now they’re raincloud grey. Raincloud grey in bruise-dark circles. He’s the picture of sorrow and exhaustion. I ache.

He grips my wrists tighter. “If I die. Hell, we don’t even have any leads— if we haven’t found my mother’s killer yet, and I die, will you promise me that you’ll keep going— you’ll avenge her?”

I swallow my sudden nausea. I grit my teeth and I nod.

“Of course. Of course I will.”

Baz lets out a breath. “Thank you,” he whispers. He doesn’t release my hands.

I frown at him. “Baz— you do realise?”

He shakes his head a little. “Hmm?”

My eyes burn. “If— _that.”_ I can’t even say it. “I wouldn’t just be avenging your mother. Whoever killed her cursed you.”

I hear him suck in a breath.

“I’ll do what she asked,” I say. “But I’ll also avenge _you.”_

His heart beats under my right hand.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to think about how many beats it has left. I try in that way that always backfires, that _don’t think about Baz dying_ way. _Don’t think about him dead and cold and gone._

“Simon,” he whispers. “ _Simon.”_

I can’t.

I push away from him.

“Vera brought you lunch,” I say, swiping my fist under my eye to catch the hot tear about to fall. “And you need to see the seamstress.”

His lips are pressed together tight and he’s blinking fast, staring at the carpet. He nods. “Fine. Eat with me.” He drags the table over and shoves a fork in my hand.

We sit in side-by-side chairs and eat his food. It’s as though Vera foresaw this, because there’s easily twice as much as he would ever eat in one sitting. Also, there are scones, which he’s never particularly cared for but she knows I adore.

I leave him as he freshens up and goes to see the seamstress, and I take the time to rest a little, as the Archmage instructed. Baz finds me after, dozing in my bedchamber, and wordlessly we pick back up and spend the day at each others’ side. There is much to do to ready the castle for the coronation, but wherever one of us is sent, the other goes too.

The way we did when we were boys.

(“Inseparable,” Vera always said.)

We check in with the cooks and Baz approves the final arrangements for the banquet being held after the ceremony. We visit the throne room to see the progress there, and in the time since the Archmage sent me off rows and rows of seating have been arranged for what looks like all the kingdom to come and witness the crowning of the new king. While we’re there, Baz is taken through a rehearsal of the ceremony, and I stand to the side while someone mimes putting a crown on his head and beg silently that he’ll get to do the real thing. We eat our evening meal together in the dining hall (Vera looks on approvingly, no doubt glad he’s eating) and retire together to Baz’s sitting room once more.

Neither of us slept last night. We’re both just inches from sleep, but I’m not ready to bid him goodnight, and my guess is he feels the same.

We watch in silence as the overcast sky turns from pink to purple to blue, and then to that deep, unsettling grey of a cloudy night. There’s so much going unspoken, but what would be the use in saying it?

When Baz finally speaks, he doesn’t look at me.

“Do you remember when we were small,” he says, “and we’d stay up all night telling stories?”

I almost smile. “Causing trouble, you mean. Running around and waking up the whole castle.”

Baz _does_ smile. “Well, yes, sometimes. But I mean those other nights. When we were tired but didn’t want to sleep.”

I do remember. We’d lie on our backs on Baz’s humongous bed, on top of his golden blankets, and take turns with the responsibility of telling stories or jokes to keep the other awake. We’d lie with our heads side by side but out feet sticking in opposite directions. The bed was so huge and we were so little.

“This is my last night in these chambers,” he says, and I start to protest.

“Baz, don’t—”

“Hush,” he snaps. “I mean, of course, that my mother’s old suite will be mine after the coronation. The royal chambers.” 

I look at Baz, and he looks at me.

I know him. This is as close to asking as he’s going to get.

“Come on, then,” I say, and head toward his bedchamber. “I’m exhausted.”

He lends me some nightclothes, and I take my old place on his bed. When was the last time I fell asleep here? Surely not since we were twelve.

It’s cold, as always, because it’s winter and there has never been a fire in this room to heat it. Baz climbs into bed more slowly, and settles on his back. Of course he even sleeps in an orderly fashion.

The moonlight casts slanting shadows across the room, and it accentuates the lines of Baz’s face; the long slope of his nose, his dark eyelashes, his full mouth. He looks unreal, too bright, with shadows too dark, like something from a dream. My eyes get caught on the way his hair falls against the pillows.

He turns his head toward me, and just for a moment he lets me see how completely and unsurpassably terrified he is.

My breath catches, and he blinks, and it’s gone.

If we weren’t as exhausted as we are, I don’t think either of us would sleep tonight.

But at some point he drifts off, and I watch how his chest rises and falls with the even breaths he still takes. I fall asleep to the sound of it— of him still living, here next to me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the love so far!! I really appreciate all the support and feedback. You're all wonderful.  
> Enjoy <3

BAZ

 

For the first time in years, I wake up warm.

Simon and I have drifted closer to one another in the night. He lies on his stomach with his face turned toward me, and his forearm, curled up toward his pillow, is pressed to my shoulder. If he moved his hand he could touch my hair.

He seemed so sure, yesterday, that it’s still possible the curse won’t do anything. If that’s the case though, if he truly believes that today isn’t my last, why did he stay with me, sleep beside me, as though it is?

This is so different than how we slept together as children. If this is my last morning— if this is the last time I’ll ever awaken from a night’s rest— I’m so glad that he’s here with me. I never thought I’d get this, not even once.

I shamelessly watch him as he slumbers on. I do everything I won’t be able to again. I admire the pale blue veins on his eyelids, trace the patterns of his freckles and moles all the way down to where they disappear below the collar of his nightclothes (mine, really,) I watch the morning sunlight light up his bronze curls like they are the flames that will kill me. They might be.

I don’t need to be king. It’s all secondary to him. I won’t regret dying having never worn my mother’s crown, but I hate to die having never kissed Simon.

Maybe he’ll be with me when it happens. (He’s hardly left my side in days, after all.) (He’s hardly left my side all my life.) That would be good. (For me. I can’t imagine it’d be pleasant for him.) Maybe then I could fulfill that dream. Just kiss him, once, before. One kiss, then I’ll go.

I hope I’ll see it coming. So I’ll have time.

He stirs. My eyes snap shut, so he won’t notice I’ve been staring. And then I curse myself, because I’m going to die today so why the hell does it matter if Simon sees me looking at him?

Too late.

I compromise and open one eye, squinting at him like he’s just woken me by all his glorious stretching. He makes a sound, throaty and rough with sleep, as he shifts onto his side and paws at his eyes.

“Could you be any louder?” I mutter, because I’m my own worst enemy.

He kicks me under the blankets. His knee settles against my leg. It makes my eyes sting.

“Sod off,” he says. He’s even closer to me now, nose just inches from mine. He opens his eyes and I’m swallowed up by blue. I’ve never seen a smile as sad as his right now. “Happy birthday,” he says.

I’m going to cry. I’m going to cry, or kiss him, or set myself on fire this moment.

Then he yawns, huge, and starts getting out of bed. The one time in my adult life I get to wake up next to Simon in my bed, and he leaves within a minute of waking up, the absolute nightmare. It’s so much colder without him. How dare he not let me bask in his warmth a few minutes longer.

He catches my eye before he steps behind the dressing screen to change. “Breakfast waits for no man,” he calls.

 

We quickly settle into some forced semblance of normalcy. I think we both need it. We part ways briefly to dress for the morning and meet in the dining hall. Neither of us makes any mention of _today—_ any part of today. Not the coronation, or my impending demise, any of it.

What I didn’t anticipate is _everyone else._ Everyone who was told in the aftermath of my mother’s murder that I’d been cursed, and to keep me safe from fire until after my eighteenth birthday. All morning, everyone we encounter greets me with a relieved smile and words of encouragement. “Today is the day!” and “Long live the new king!” With every hopeful look and kind sentiment I feel my heart sink further into my stomach.

Simon eats about half as much as he normally does, and I force myself to swallow at least enough to avoid concern.

“What will we do today?” Simon asks, as though it’s any other day, but his grin is wooden.

I have a million things I’d like to spend today doing. But I don’t even have a moment to sort through them before people start to descend on the breakfast table.

The seamstress has taken in the shoulders of my uniform for the coronation, and I should come see her as soon as possible to check the fit. The chancellor and steward have sixty one documents I’ll need to sign as the incoming monarch, and forty of them will need to be done before I make my oath during the ceremony. The Archmage did not get around to approving some budget or other, and it’s rather pressing, so I should do that as well “if there’s time.” And on top of it all, apparently it’s vital that my portrait be hung next to my mother’s very promptly, so I should see someone about selecting what colours I should wear and which artist we should commission and whatnot. All this before my valets and grooms will need to ready me for the coronation.

In just a few harried conversations, my day is wholly sectioned off into responsibilities with not a minute to spare.

All kinds of things start to occur to me. Things Simon and I should have done yesterday while we still had the chance. Spend another night at the festival, to see its end, and dance beneath the lanterns again. Go horseback riding and race like we used to. And— Merlin— devote proper time to avenging my mother’s murder, like I vowed to do.

My consolation is Simon, and his promise to avenge her. Us.

We’re granted just a moment, as I tell the chancellor I’ll be with him in the council chambers shortly. In the corridor outside the dining hall, before a colourful tapestry as old as the castle itself, Simon scratches the back of his neck and bites his lip and my heart cannot take the sight.

I glance sharply to the side, because even now I would rather burn than let him see what he does to me.

“I didn’t realize how much you had to do,” he says. “I thought… but, I suppose it makes sense.”

I nod stiffly.

Simon looks to the window, out to the sky where the sun is still climbing. The assassin’s voice from Penelope’s memory echoes in my mind. _Before the sun sets,_ he says, detatched and disinterested.

“Just— be safe, all right?” says Simon, voice thick. I can’t look at him. “Don’t take any risks. Keep near someone, just in case.”

“I will,” I assure him, though it’s useless.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Don’t you dare just— _wait_ for…”

I look at him then, because I have to. He is fierce, hopeful. Beautiful. He’s Simon, and he’s whole and alive and has a lifetime ahead of him. If I can’t be a part of it, I can grant him this.

“I’ll be careful,” I tell him, and I actually mean it this time. At least he’ll know I tried.

“Right,” he says. “Right. So. I’ll—” He takes a deep breath and exhales unsteadily. “I’ll see you later. At the coronation.”

And Merlin, I hope so. 

My voice is caught in my throat again but I force myself to speak, just in case.

“Simon—”

“No, don’t,” he says. “Don’t. Please, no.”

So I don’t.

We set off in opposite directions. 

I shouldn’t glance back at him, but I do.

He’s looking back at me, as well.

 

I sit through hours of tedium. I sign decrees, approve budgets, visit the seamstress. My quill hand aches and I lose track of how many things are shoved beneath it for my signature. I speak with dozens of people in various rooms and none of them present me with fire, so my apprehension only grows. Every time someone steps toward me I startle, preparing for the worst. I catch glimpses of the sun out of slivers of windows and track it as it rises and then sinks throughout the afternoon, counting down to inevitability. It’s all I can think about. My heart beats harder until I’m dizzy and faint. My fingers are icy, but that’s nothing new.

At one point Vera appears and leads me out. I follow her, unseeing, until I’m pushed toward a steaming tub and the combination of heat and herbal scents brings me back into my body. A valet assists me as I bathe, and I’m scrubbed and polished until feeling returns to my skin. I don’t actually recognize the dressing room they’ve brought me to. It’s spacious, and full of fine furnishings, and the windows have colourful glass.

Oh, Merlin. We’re in the royal chambers.

The shining floor is alight with colourful shapes, cast by the windows. The West-facing windows are blinding, far too bright to look at. The sun has dipped so low that I’m getting its glare full-force.

How likely is it that here, in this dressing room as the valets comb my hair and douse me in perfumes, I’ll stumble across an open flame and find no way to avoid it?

Not only likely, but guaranteed, I remind myself. But an increasing part of me starts to glow with hope.

Simon believes it’s possible. And if it is, then _tonight is my coronation._ Stars above, I’ll be king. I’ll be king, and I’ll wear my mother’s crown, and I’ll be the sovereign ruler of the land.

The reality of the coronation hits me all at once. Supposing I don’t die before it, all eyes will be on me. I mustn’t stumble, mustn’t shake, mustn’t waver. I’ll retire to my mother and father’s old quarters tonight, and come the morning I can have the Archmage removed and replaced once and for all. In whatever fashion allows Simon to still live in the castle. (No, actually. I’ll send the Archmage off and promote Simon to something grand. Appoint him to a council of some kind, or make him chief of something. Or just create a permanent residence for the Duke of Something, and grant him the title. I’ll figure it out. I’ll be the bloody king.) 

My valets present me with my garments for the ceremony, except for what will be added just beforehand. Truly, the seamstress has done a tremendous job. Many hands help me into the fine, black doublet and fasten it all the way up to my neck. The long hem and snug trousers make me appear, in the looking-glass, even taller than ever before. Delicate embroidery on the doublet adds the Pitch family gold.

Then Vera returns, and her eyes well right up.

“Look at you,” she whispers. I’m not even properly dressed yet, much is still missing, but she grips my hand and says “Your mother would be so proud.”

She leads me out of the royal chambers, through the castle, and to a set of antechambers that connect to the throne room. There the rest of my ceremonial attire awaits me.

I have no idea how she became the one to have this responsibility, (I put nothing past her,) but Vera herself lifts the black velvet cape from the dress form and drapes it over my shoulders. It weighs an absolute ton, and it trails on the ground behind me. She fastens it to my shoulders, and a thin gold rope sits loosely across my chest, connecting the two sides. The gold embroidery on the cape is much larger than the tiny filigree on my doublet, instead bold and grand and symmetrical. This very cape was worn by my mother, and hers, and generations of kings and queens before us.

The finishing touches are a selection of the crown jewels, including a Pitch family crest ring. I have to sit once it’s all in place, from the weight of the cape as well as the shaking in my knees.

“Thank you,” I tell Vera. She touches my face, which she hasn’t done since I was little, and gives me one more tearful smile. Someone knocks at the door, and Vera bids me farewell and good luck as she steps out.

I rise, prepared to follow the herald to the throne room.

But it’s Simon who comes through the door and halts at the sight of me. Someone has shown some care to his curls, and for once in his life they’re neat and positively gleaming. They’ve dressed him in deep blue. He’s never looked more like a prince.

And he’s staring at me with his mouth slightly agape.

“I— wow,” he says, and swallows.

My cheeks warm. I narrow my eyes at him to offset it.

He blinks a few times, and then he meets my eyes. He’s fighting a grin. “I feel as though I should kneel,” he says. “Shall I swear fealty to you?”

I smirk. “I should hope that by now I can trust in your loyalty, of all people.” I’m sharply reminded that we slept in the same bed last night.

His face breaks into a wide smile— the one that can stop my heart from across a room. “Of course,” he says.

Simon looks to the window then, and I mirror him. The sun is just a semicircle now. It’s only minutes from disappearing behind the horizon. We share an understanding look charged with relief. I’m somewhere between petrified and giddy.

“I just wanted to wish you luck,” Simon says, “not that you need it.”

“It’s appreciated,” I say, honestly. “I’ll look for you.”

“Do. What’s the use in befriending the future king if he doesn’t look at you as he’s crowned?”

I want to kiss the self-satisfied smile off his face.

“Breathe easy, Baz,” Simon says. “I’ll see you soon.”

“You will.”

“Congratulations, my King,” he murmurs as he slips from the room, leaving me with a racing heart and a mind awhirl.

When the door opens next, I’m ready. I set my shoulders, tilt my chin up, will my knees into steadiness. I imagine that the weight of the cape on my shoulders is that of my mother’s hands, guiding me. I almost feel as though she’s leading me forward.

But it’s not the herald who enters.

It’s the Archmage.

And he carries a lit candle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go!! I have no experience with action stuff like this (is it even really action? close enough) but I sure had fun writing it lol  
> Hope you enjoy!! <3

SIMON

 

The throne room is abuzz with hushed chatter. I’ve never in my life seen so many people in the castle. The throne room is unfathomably huge, and it’s stuffed. Every single time a door opens, nearly a thousand heads look to see who it is, and if the ceremony is about to start. 

Even the balconies that wrap around the walls are full, and faces peer over at the crowd below. The royal musicians are up there, somewhere. I can hear some kind of gentle music meant to entertain us while we wait.

The thrones sit on a raised dais, several wide steps up. My father told me that sometimes the throne meant for the consort is removed for events like this, particularly when there isn’t a consort, but Baz told the staff not to bother. I agree with him, I don’t see any reason it should take away from the coronation. That’s the throne on which his father sat. And anyway, the consort’s throne is smaller, and the two are a matching set. I’m not even sure how they would be moved. They look spectacularly heavy, made of burnished gold, and they’re so elegant and ancient they seem to be a part of the room itself.

Also on the dais, today, is a pedestal topped with a wide pillow. An exquisite crown rests on the pillow, glinting. The chancellor stands over it, keeping watch.

Baz has always looked the part of the Prince. But today— seeing him, just now, dressed like _that—_ he looks every bit a _King._ That shining, ornate crown will be made more beautiful by him wearing it. I don’t think I’ve ever really noticed his shoulders before today, before that cape was pinned to them. I can imagine him up on that throne, grey eyes flicking over the crowd, seeking me out.

Merlin.

I must be very excited for him, because my heart Is positively pounding.

One of the doors at the back opens again, and I crane my head to look as everyone else does, but it’s just another guest trickling in. Orange light spills in while the door is open. I’ve never been so glad to see a setting sun.

They must be nearly ready to begin. My father and I are meant to sit together, of course, and he’s not here yet either so they must still be getting organized for the ceremony. He’s meant to grant a gift of prosperity to the King and the realm during the coronation.

I fidget in my seat. I dislike sitting still for long stretches, and this is definitely going to be a long one. I decide to take advantage of the late start to the ceremony and stretch my legs. I walk the length of the throne room, to the back toward the doors, keeping close along the wall because everywhere else is solid people. Amidst the crowd I spot Penelope, who turns and locks eyes with me as though she’s read my mind. I go to her.

She wastes no time. “Well?” she asks, voice hushed.

I shrug. “Nothing happened. He’s fine.” It doesn’t quite feel real yet, that the threat is really gone.

Penelope frowns. The door at the rear of the hall opens yet again, and we’re lit by another beam of setting sunlight. It’s gentler now, more watery. It’s nearly down.

Penelope’s voice is nearly inaudible over the murmuring crowd. “Simon,” she says, “the sun hasn’t set.”

“Any minute now,” I say.

She looks at me with wide eyes. “He’s late,” she whispers. “Where is he?”

I’m cold, all of a sudden. I excuse myself and move back through the dense crowd to the edge of the room, and find my way to the nearest door. I slip out into the cool corridor and head around toward the antechamber. I’ll just check on him, and then I’ll head back inside. Penelope will see that he’s all right, and nothing came of the curse.

It’s strange seeing the castle so empty. But even the staff are either waiting in the throne room, preparing the banquet, or moving Baz’s things to his new quarters. I don’t see a soul along my way, until I nearly run straight into my father, hurrying toward me.

“Simon!” he says with a wide smile. “A momentous day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes,” I say, glancing over his shoulder to the door at the end of the corridor. I move to continue on, but he sets his hands on my shoulders.

“We’d best take our seats. Shall we?”

“Oh, of course,” I say. “I was just going to check on Baz.”

“No sense disturbing him,” father says. “Come along.”

“I’ll be just a moment,” I tell him. “Excuse me.”

He nearly laughs. “You’re being childish, Simon. Leave him be. The Prince can handle himself.”

“It won’t take long,” I say, and move to get past him.

He steps into my path, blocking me.

“Come with me,” my father insists.

“Father, you don’t understand. It’s important. I just need to—”

“Don’t, Simon.”

I look at him. At the severity in his eyes in stark contrast with his amicable smile.

I straighten up and meet my father’s stare. My stomach is in knots.

“What’s going on, father?” I ask.

His smile falters. “I always knew this friendship of yours would be troublesome,” he says, and his voice is so cold.

I’m nauseous. I need to see Baz.

My voice comes out a whisper. “Why can’t I see him?”

The door is just there, ahead of me at the end of the corridor. My father is the only thing in my way.

There are footsteps behind me. Four of the Archmage’s private guard approach us. Father looks at them and nods. 

“If you must,” he says to me, and steps aside. I all but run to the door. He follows, guards in tow.

I throw open the door.

“There’s your precious _prince_ ,” my father spits, and the world falls away. 

I can’t breathe.

Can’t think.

Little things: His hair splayed out on the floor like spilled ink. Arm bent at an odd angle. The velvet cape covers him like a blanket.

The last ray of sunlight glints off a ring on his reddened, burned finger.

“What have you done,” I hear myself whisper. “Father, what have you done?”

I stumble forward, but hands wrap around my biceps and hold me in place. I can’t tear my eyes from the nightmare before me. I can’t do anything.

“You two,” barks the Archmage. “Collect the body. We mustn’t let our Prince spend any longer on the ground. Take him somewhere more dignified.”

_The body._

The other two guards crouch and get their arms under him, none too gently. I’m going to be sick.

One man looks up, frowns at the Archmage.

“My lord, are you quite—”

“Do you need further instructions? Are you that incompetent?” I no longer recognize my father’s voice.

The guards look at each other, and the first speaks again. “It’s just, I’m not sure he’s—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion. _Move him.”_

They hoist him up, and the guard’s words roll around in my head. They aren’t much to go on, but Merlin it’s _something._ I’m queasy and shaking and numb this _cannot be happening_ but I focus, with everything I have, on his slack, too-pale face.

_Please. Please, fuck, show me anything._

I can’t look at him like this.

I have to look at him.

His head lolls.

The guards are jostling him too much— it’s not right— and I can’t fucking see if he does anything, if he twitches, if his eyelids move, or his chest. I strain my eyes. I watch his throat for a pulse, watch his face for any sign.

I can’t see anything.

They carry him right past me, close enough to touch, and out into the empty corridor.

A terrible sound rips out of me, somewhere between a sob and a scream.

“And your son?” says one of the men holding me.

The Archmage clicks his tongue. “Lock him up, I suppose. I’ll go inform the kingdom that the Prince is dead.”

I thrash and struggle as they haul me away. I hurl curses and threats at the Archmage and shout for help when we reach the corridor, but the castle may as well be empty. Everyone is in the throne room waiting for a coronation that won’t happen.

_“It’s just, I’m not sure he’s—”_

What else could that possibly mean? No— I force myself away from that line of thought. There’s only one word I’ll accept that the guard meant to say. _“It’s just, I’m not sure he’s dead.”_ He has to be alive. He has to, because if he isn’t alive then he’s dead that wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be fine. There’s a crown back there waiting for him. He has a legacy to fulfill.

Vera says we’re inseparable. We weren’t supposed to be parted.

My father’s guards throw me in a tiny, freezing room in the bowels of the castle. There’s a window with iron bars in lieu of glass letting in the winter wind. The door slams shut behind me, and a heavy bolt locks me inside. They leave me, wordless, with nothing but some mildew and my own tears.

First, I’m angry. I’m bloody fucking furious— at the curse, at my father, at myself. I rail against the door with my fists, fling myself against it as though it’ll snap off its hinges. I pound and I shout. And then I sink to the floor and sob into my arms and stare at the pale purple sky sliced up by the window bars.

I spent dawn asleep beside him, in the room where we played together as children. It’s dusk now.

The door rattles, and I scramble to my feet. I won’t let the Archmage or his guard see me crying on the ground like a child. The bolt scrapes back with a harsh grating sound, and, to my tremendous surprise, Penelope slips inside, key in hand.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss. “How did you—”

“There’s no time for that,” she says, pulling a handkerchief from nowhere for me to wipe my face. “The Archmage thinks he’s won. He’s already offered to continue as interim monarch until an heir is announced.”

“He’s— I don’t— what—”

“Which I suppose I should have seen coming. He has the most to gain from the Prince’s death.”

“ _What?”_

“It all makes so much sense. But we can deal with all of that after.”

I can’t get enough air. “Penelope—” I can’t figure out what she’s saying. And I hate the question I ask next. “Do you think he’s dead?” 

I don’t dare guess the answer. But there’s no sadness in her face, just that knowingness I saw before and a great deal of determination. “I gave him that gift, Simon,” Penelope says. “That magic is a part of me. I can feel it.”

It’s as though things start to rebuild themselves. The world fell away, before, and suddenly it’s coming back.

“What do you mean?” I whisper.

“He’s alive,” Penelope says. “And he needs you.” 

Of course he is. Baz is alive. I hate that I ever thought he wasn’t. I’m gasping with relief, and shivering all over.

This means he has a True Love, somewhere, but I can’t find that same fear in me as before. I only care that he _lives._

Penelope’s eyes flick to the door, to the dark corridor she just came from.

“If the Archmage put you in here,” she says, “then I’d imagine you’ll have some trouble getting through the castle freely.”

“Do you know where they’ve brought Baz?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “In his bedchamber, perhaps?” she suggests.

But they were moving his things, of course. His bedchamber is empty by now.

I tell her as much. “The royal chambers, then,” I muse. “At the top of the West tower.”

“It won’t be easy to get all the way there, not with his men around.”

That won’t do. Baz is alive, cursed in slumber and left for dead. I have to get to him as quick as possible. I can’t stand the thought of him lying there alone.

The answer comes to me easily. I’ve snuck around this castle all my life.

“Can you help me get to the cellars?” I ask, and Penelope nods. We slip back out of the cell and re-lock the door with the key Penelope swiped off a guard, somehow. There’s no one down here, in this dark and damp underbelly of the castle, but Penelope goes first around every corner and keeps a watchful eye out just in case. We tiptoe around until the floor slopes up a bit, and soon enough find ourselves approaching the cellars in the drier, less rotted part of this underground floor. I lead the way, after Penelope checks that no one is in the cellars. I show her to the back, where the crown’s wine reserve ages in huge wooden barrels. I drag the false one aside and follow Penelope through the passage it reveals, sliding the barrel back into place behind us.

“What _is_ this?” she asks as we hurry, crouched, through the dark passageway.

“There are lots of them in the castle,” I tell her. “They’re secret. I’m trusting you won’t go announcing this one.”

“Of course not.”

We emerge moments later in the library, through a narrow gap between shelves. Penelope scouts ahead and finds no one lurking amongst the books, then turns back to me.

“We’re close, now?” she asks, and I nod. “Then you’ll have to be very careful. Let me give you something.”

She murmurs something, like a verse of poetry, and, in that way that she does, reaches into thin air and draws forth a long, golden object. It solidifies in her hands, taking the shape of a glimmering broadsword.

She holds it out to me, but I don’t take it.

“Here, Simon,” she insists. “It’s called the Sword of Mages. If your intentions are good and just, it will let you wield it.”

I hesitate, still, but she shoves it toward me. “It will only be of use for things it deems pure of heart. You might not need it, but wouldn’t you rather have it, just in case?”

I take the sword. It’s lighter than most I’ve used, and balanced like it was made for my hand.

Penelope sticks her head out and peers down the corridor.

“No one.”

I adjust my grip on the hilt and look out at the hall, too. There’s a gnawing in my stomach, and I’m dizzy from the whirlwind of emotions today has brought.

“You’re sure he’s all right?” I ask, because it’s so hard to believe. He looked so corpse-like.

Footsteps sound, down the corridor. We duck back into the library as they go by.

“He’ll be a lot better once you get to him,” Penelope says.

That’s the other thing. “But I can’t help him,” I mutter.

She narrows her eyes at me, and peeks out the door again. “You’re both imbeciles,” she says. “Now, let’s go.”

And we do. Whether or not I can save him, I can stay by his side and let the kingdom know who did this to him. Because the Archmage isn’t my father anymore, at least in any way that matters. (He hasn’t ever really been. I know Baz thinks so.) Where is the Archmage, I wonder? Consoling a kingdom for a murder he committed?

The castle isn’t silent anymore. It’s alive with chaos. Echoing up the stairwells are the sounds of hundreds of shocked voices, no doubt being funnelled out of the throne room and asked to return home. The staff must all still be wherever they were when the Archmage made his announcement, except for his private guard. I don’t see anyone, just hear the outrage and anguish, until we round the corner to the last staircase to the royal chambers and come face to face with two of the private guard.

“How—?” one man says, and the other sets his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

“You’re meant to be locked up,” the first says, and I realize it’s the same two who tossed me into that room so recently.

Penelope stands her ground, and I raise the Sword of Mages. It glows with its own light, like it’s got a sun inside.

I really don’t want to use it. But I’m getting past these guards, no matter the cost.

Amazingly, at the sight of the Sword, the two men each take a great step aside, in perfect synchronicity. Suspicious, I take a tentative step toward them, but neither so much as reaches for their weapons. I keep the blade pointed at them as we move past, wary. Penelope goes ahead of me, and I follow with the Sword, but no attack comes, and they let me by.

In the stairwell, Penelope turns to me. “See? The Sword is useful.”

I shoot her a grateful look and push onward, upward. I haven’t spent much time in the royal chambers, though the Archamge lived in them all my life, but I have a rough idea of where, above my head, Baz is. I can’t get there fast enough.

We charge up the curved staircase in wide loops of the huge tower. As I run, as my feet hit the polished stone stairs, dark shapes begin to spring forth on all sides. From the walls, the windows, the very stairs themselves, growing, twisting briars and thorns burst out and snatch at my feet.

“Watch out!” Penelope shouts as one thorned vine wraps right around my ankle. I hack it off with the Sword. More briars surge up under my every step. The thicket grows so fast, by the time I’ve untangled my foot from the barbs beneath it a veritable wall has formed across the staircase, blocking my path. The thornbushes keep twisting and writhing, filling in every space until the West tower is one mass of living spikes.

“What the hell is this?” I cry as barbs and thorns fill every corner of my vision.

“The Archmage, no doubt,” says Penelope. “This is a curse if I’ve ever seen one.”

Fuck. At least I know we’re headed in the right direction.

_I’m coming, Baz._

The Sword makes effective progress against the undulating thorns, slicing them away in great, clean chunks. The pieces vanish as they become separated from the mass, I discover. I hack away, blazing a rough trail through the solid briars. Thorns snag my clothes, my skin, tear out my hair as I go. Penelope follows, keeping close so the constantly-growing mass won’t snatch her right up. We force our way through, letting the Sword guide the way, up and up until we finally, at long last, stagger out of the stairs and into the royal chambers.

Penelope stays at the top of the stairs. “I’ll wait here, in case anyone comes.”

I nod, and step through the first doorway.

It’s another library, not half the size of the castle’s but grand nonetheless. I hurry on through it and find myself in a sitting room.

My heart thumps audibly as I search the suite, looking in every room to find the bedchamber. How big is this suite? There are a dozen rooms, at least. I just need to find Baz.

But there, finally, on the East-facing side. A closed door that can only lead to the bedchamber. I go inside.

They’ve laid him on the biggest bed I’ve ever seen, even larger than his old one. He’s atop the covers, and they’ve folded his hands over his middle. As I draw nearer I see he’s still wearing the cape and everything, as though he’ll sit up any moment and head down to his coronation.

He lies perfectly, eerily still. It’s much too easy to believe he’s dead. But as I draw nearer, as I watch, his chest rises just slightly, and falls a moment later. He breathes slowly, gently. I hope it’s a peaceful sleep.

I forego pulling a chair to his bedside, because the bed is so giant I may as well sit across the room from him. Instead, I set down the Sword and settle myself on the edge of the bed, facing him. I take his hand and hold it in both of my own. He’s always freezing cold. Perhaps I can lend him some warmth. (They should have put him under the covers, to keep him warm.)

He looks small, here. Which is ridiculous, he’s magnificently tall and one of the most intimidating people I’ve ever known. But lying limp on his mother’s old bed, not yet King, cold and sleeping and cursed, he just looks like a boy. I’m overwhelmed with the need to stay with him, protect him, keep him safe and keep him company.

How long will he have to sleep like this, until someone can save him? Where will I even begin to find Baz’s True Love?

I clutch his hand tighter. I wish he didn’t need a True Love. I want to be the one to save him.

_“He needs you,”_ I recall Penelope saying. Not “he needs help,” “he needs _you.”_

My eyes rove over Baz’s sleeping face, just as I did last night but in such different circumstances. He’s always been infuriatingly handsome. I push back a lock of hair that’s nearly in his eyes, and my hand lingers against his cheekbone. He’s so cold, even there. My fingers brush along the side of his face, down to his jaw. It’s strange seeing his face so relaxed. He keeps his expressions so carefully composed. Always the perfect picture of whatever he’s feeling: disdain, disinterest, amusement, or pure, sneering malice. It’s a rare privilege to see anything else. I’m one of the lucky few who ever sees him with his guard down.

He’s very good at sneering. But his mouth looks nice like this, too. My fingertip touches the curve of his lower lip, so softly I barely feel it.

When did I lean in like this? I’m so near to him. I could count his eyelashes. (A part of me wants to.) I could lay my head on his chest and fall asleep with him. (Like last night, but better.) I could press my face into his hair and breathe in the fact that he’s alive.

_What am I thinking?_

I’m not thinking. Not really. If I were thinking, I wouldn’t still be leaning in closer to him, touching his face with my fingertips.

_“He needs you,”_ says Penelope’s echo, again.

Could he? Is there any way that I can do this for him?

Merlin, I want to. I want to save him. I want to keep being inseparable.

He needs his True Love.

Do I love him?

_Yes,_ my mind supplies. He’s my dearest friend. Always has been.

A part of me already knows that I’m fooling myself. Why else would the idea of him growing old with someone else cause me so much fear and frustration?

Obviously I care for him. Apparently I fancy him. And he’s alive, dammit, so someone that he loves must love him truly in return.

I’m so close to him. I can feel his soft breaths on my face.

I might just wake him from how loudly my heart is beating.

He’s already spent too much time cursed to sleep. And the Archmage could appear any moment. And I want to see his eyes open again.

There’s no harm in trying, I remind myself.

His hand is still limp in mine that isn’t tracing over his cheekbone. I squeeze it, more to comfort myself than anything. My fingers still their movements against his jaw. And, ever so slowly, I lower my head and press my lips gently to his.

His mouth is cold, and so, so soft.

I kiss him for a long moment before I draw back.

I must be clutching his hand too tight, but I squeeze it harder.

_Wake up, Baz,_ I wish. _Please wake up._

Still he breathes quietly, evenly, and his eyelids don’t so much as flutter. My lip trembles.

And then he gasps.

Grey eyes fly open and colour rushes to his cheeks and he clutches my hand back, breathing hard and fast.

 

BAZ

 

I surge awake all at once with the feeling that I’ve just been dropped from a great height. The first thing my eyes land on is Simon, leaning over me with wide eyes.

“Simon,” I gasp, because he’s the only thing I can focus on. I’m not in my bedchamber. I don’t know where I am. “I’m— where—”

“Shh,” he whispers, in an odd role-reversal. He’s usually the one blustering like a fool. “You’re all right,” he says. “We’re in the royal chambers.”

Something is touching my face, I realize. His hand? It falls away as soon as I notice it.

Things start flooding back to me. The coronation, the candle—

“The Archmage,” say. My chest is heaving. I’m gulping in air like I’ve been suffocated. “The Archmage had a candle.”

He nods. “I know. I came looking for you.” Of course he did. Thank goodness for him. His hair is all mussed, I notice. What happened to those lovingly arranged curls? It doesn’t matter— he’s still a vision.

He’s here. I’m awake and he’s here.

The candle. The curse.

I sit upright, and realize as I do that I’m holding his hand. Or he’s holding mine. We’re holding hands.

I’m awake and he’s here and he’s holding my hand. Merlin, I’m dizzy. He squeezes my hand while I fight to even out my breaths.

Did he—?

He must have.

I stare at him. Those plain blue eyes and the mole on his cheek and his _lips—_

Is it possible— it is _actually possible_ — that Simon just broke my curse with a kiss and _I slept through it?_ My hand drifts up to my lips, as if I can feel his kiss there if I try.

He shifts a little closer to me. “Are you all right, are you hurt?”

_That_ doesn’t matter in the least right now— has he no sense? He’s my True Love. I don’t want to think about anything else.

“Simon,” I say, and tug our joined hands closer to me. “I’m awake.”

He smiles, looking all too proud of himself. This is real. “You are,” he whispers back.

“You broke the curse.”

His cheeks turn pink. “I did.”

This isn’t working. I fix him with a look and raise an eyebrow. “It’s rather unfair that I was asleep for it. That’s something I would have liked to remember.”

Simon huffs out a laugh. “Shall I refresh your memory?” He’s playing along, but I know him well enough to see the trepidation in his eyes. I melt, let him see that I really do mean it. My free hand comes up to his shoulder and pulls him toward me, just a little.

“Please do,” I murmur. And he does.

My eyes flutter closed as he leans in. I tremble as he kisses me with excruciating softness. I kiss him back, holding onto him for dear life. I’m floating.

_Simon is kissing me._

I need _more._

I tilt my head, press closer to him, but he pulls away all of a sudden. His hand is on my face again, and he’s the only warm thing in this room.

“Baz,” he breathes, and my heart thumps. “Baz. Fuck— _Baz.”_

“Simon?”

“We have to go,” he says, and pulls me with him as he stands. My head spins for a moment as I right myself, and I gladly take the opportunity to hold onto Simon’s arm for balance. “The coronation, the people— the Archmage. He tried to kill you.”

I grit my teeth. (So much for our moment up here in the tower.)

Simon stops cold. “Do you think…” He swallows. “Do you think he set the curse, too?”

Oh, Merlin. Simon. “It would make sense,” I say, voice low. I watch for his reaction.

To his credit, he just nods. “I think so, too,” he whispers. “Let’s go. So much has happened. The kingdom thinks you’re dead.”

He picks up a sword I hadn’t noticed before and leads me out, by the hand. I follow him to the staircase, where we find Penelope. They fill me in as we hurry down, through a thicket of thorns that definitely was not here before. Two guards at the bottom of the tower give us blank, disinterested looks as we run by.

A shout goes up as we burst into the throne room. The Archmage stands before the crowd, blithely offering words of comfort to the distressed crowd.

He freezes at the sight of me.

Fortunately for me, along with the anguished coronation attendees, the room is packed with soldiers and castle guards galore.

I do glance at Simon, in case. But he glares at the Archmage with malice that matches my own. So I continue.

I tilt my head at my would-be assassin. “Seize him,” I request, and a dozen men leap forth.

The Archmage makes to run, but the room is so clogged with people that my men make it to him first. I instruct them to lock him up under heavy guard. He can be properly dealt with later. He’s not worth a moment more of my energy just yet.

“Prince Basilton!” calls the chancellor, pushing through people to reach me. “Thank goodness you’re all right.”

“I’m quite fine, thank you.”

“This is a proper mess, isn’t it?” the chancellor says, gesturing around at the scene before us. He looks to me. And, I notice, so do other castle staff. Right. The Archmage isn’t here to brush me aside and decide what to do on his own. This is up to me. And I don’t know what to do.

Simon steps up at my side and lets his knuckles brush mine. I’m grateful for his support, however subtle.

“I suppose,” the chancellor says. “The question now is, will there be a coronation tonight?”

Simon splutters. “After everything that’s happened?”

The coronation feels like the least important thing right now. But I look to the chancellor for his opinion.

He starts to ramble. “Certainly what matters is whether the Prince is prepared for such a ceremony, given the circumstances. Your grace, we can of course postpone. Though, the preparations will take another week, at least, and the food for the banquet will need to be ordered again, and an interim monarch will need to be established—”

“Chancellor,” I interrupt him. The coronation, I remember, isn’t for the King. It’s for the kingdom. “We are but an hour behind schedule. I am in perfect health,” if more than a little shaken, “and I see no reason why the coronation shouldn’t continue as planned.”

The chancellor sags with relief. “Leave it to me, your grace,” he says, and hurries off.

I’m reeling.

A hand on my back guides me out of the throne room, until I find myself in that very same antechamber as earlier. Simon pushes me into a chair. The candle is on the ground, burnt out. He throws it out the window.

I’m weary. My neck aches. This thousand pound cape is attached to my shoulders and I’ve been nearly killed, cursed, and rescued in the last hour alone.

Simon stands before me, frowning. “You don’t have to do this,” he says.

I shake my head. “It isn’t about me,” I tell him. “It’s the people, the castle staff. I can’t put them through it all again in a week’s time.”

A hesitant hand reaches out. He tips my chin up with his fingers, meets my eyes. “You’re sure?” he asks.

I nod. And Simon’s lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “You’re a self-sacrificing fool. Did you know that?”

That makes me grin. Simon bends and presses his lips to my forehead. (I could cry. Is this my world, now? Simon and his kisses?)

I’m a dishevelled mess. (So much for my valets’ hard work, earlier.) Simon does what he can to help me tidy up.He smoothes my hair down (and makes me weak with the sensation of his fingers on my scalp. _Wow._ ) He brushes off the velvet cape, straightens the front of my doublet. I keep finding things to fix, specks of dust to brush away, but he catches my flying hands and stills them. If he can look at me like _that,_ perhaps I don’t look like too much of a disaster. Simon stays until the very moment that the herald comes to escort me.

 

The chancellor does an excellent job. When I return to the throne room, everything looks as it must have before things went awry. Penelope is called upon to gift the realm with prosperity, in lieu of the Archmage, and she graciously obliges. I kneel before the chancellor and recite my oath to the kingdom.When I rise, I ascend the steps and, for the first time, sit where my mother once sat on this throne as old as the kingdom. And when the crown is placed on my head, I seek out Simon off to the side of the crowd, and he smiles at me as I’m declared King.

The banquet is another beast entirely. I’m seated at the high table, where all can see me, and I force myself through pleasant conversation and proper, regal posture through an incredibly long and loud meal. To my great fortune, however, the people seated on either side of me are meant to be the chancellor and the Archmage. The chancellor himself suggested that the Archmage’s heir would do just fine given the circumstances. So Simon sits beside me and holds my hand beneath the table.

The musicians strike up as the plates are cleared, indicating the start of the dancing. Luckily, this is one tradition that the King is not expected to take part in. Not that I don’t want to dance, of course. I simply have other plans.

Once the dancing is well underway and my disappearance isn’t likely to cause a stir, I excuse myself from the table. The chancellor smiles and waves me off. I’m King now, I suppose. If I want to leave a banquet early, who’s to stop me?

I drag Simon out of the banquet hall and further, to the castle’s centre courtyard. The music and laughter and candlelight spills out after us, but it’s quieter out here. I didn’t realize I had such a headache until the quiet offered some relief.

With the music and the moonlight I’m reminded of our dance at the festival, just a few days ago. I imagine he’s thinking of the same thing when he offers his hand. I take it, and we pull each other close as we did that night.

I’m too exhausted to be terrified of his nearness, but not so much as to be unaffected. He must notice my breath catch, because a faint smile tugs at his lips.

(Lips that I’ve kissed. I’m living a charmed life.)

“What happens now?” he whispers.

What indeed.

“Now…” My eyes wander back to the open doors to the banquet hall, at all the people in there. My people. I’m too weary to think about ruling, just yet. “Now I get to have a bloody fire when it’s cold,” I say. “I don’t have to freeze in my sleep anymore.”

Simon huffs, amused, but his eyes are serious. “I’m not sure I’ll ever stop being afraid of you and fire,” he admits.

“Well, how else am I to keep warm?”

Simon’s eyes narrow, and the arm around my waist pulls me abruptly closer. “Were you cold last night?” he murmurs, and my face heats. He will be the death of me. “Well?” he presses.

Two can play at this game. I let my fingertips drifts to the side of his neck, and he gulps. “I was nearly warm enough last night,” I lie. It was perfectly warm just with him there. “Perhaps that arrangement would merit another attempt.” I have no idea where this is coming from. I must be truly in need of sleep to be saying things like _that._

He’s blushing too, now. I want to feel how warm his cheek is.

I can do that now, I realize, so I do. I press my lips to the mole on his cheek, the one I’ve wanted to kiss since I was twelve. He’s _so warm._ Merlin, I’m tired.

“That’s a fine idea,” Simon says breathlessly. He pulls away from me then, and I nearly protest, but he keeps my hand and leads me across the courtyard.

“Where are we going?” I ask. I don’t want to go and do things. I want to keep swaying with him to the music. Or go to sleep.

Simon yawns. “Your chambers,” he says. I choke on my words.

It’s so dark on the stairs that I can hardly see Simon next to me. I just hear his footsteps in time with my own. An image rises in my mind, of Simon at my side in the Wavering Wood of my dreams. But unlike the dream, I can turn turn my head, and let my eyes adjust, and he smiles at me.

Vera has not lit the hearth is my new chambers, but there are candles in glass lanterns around the corners of the rooms, casting a gentle glow.

Simon starts toward the bed, but I hold him back. “Wait,” I say, and release his hand. “Before we sleep,” I whisper. Because he has done this twice, now, and I want a chance.

I set my hands on his jaw and let my thumbs brush over the soft skin of his cheeks. Simon’s lips fall open and he sucks in an uneven breath. His eyes flick to my mouth, and he tilts his chin up as I lean in and kiss him.

It’s shy and sweet and unbearable until Simon’s hands slide up and grip my back. I bury my fingers in his hair and we push each other until we’re kissing like we need each other to survive. There’s velvet under my hands and he’s smiling against my lips and just before I think I’ll crumble under his touch we rest our foreheads together and catch our breath.

I’m shaking— I know I am— embarrassingly so, but it’s Simon and he saved my life today and it’s all too much. He studies the fasteners on the cape and manages to release them, and I can breathe deeply again with its weight off of me. He sets it on a chair for someone to find in the morning.

“We need to rest,” he says, as his kinder way of saying that _I_ need to rest. And who am I to refuse him?

We get into bed as we did last night, which is to say much too far from each other. I can’t bring myself to cross the space, but I eye it with distaste until Simon rolls his eyes and moves in close.

“You’re impossible,” he whispers, even as I roll toward him and let our legs tangle.

“You’re a nightmare,” I counter, even as he presses his face into my shoulder.

There’s so much to deal with in the morning. So much it makes my stomach turn. I shove the thought of the Archmage straight out of my mind. We’ll have to talk about all of it soon, but I won’t let it ruin tonight.

Tonight is for this. For him snoring softly into my shoulder and my fingers clutching the warm fabric of his nightshirt. For broken curses and, though we haven’t really spoken of it yet, True Love. For waking up a Prince and going to sleep a King, but both with Simon at my side. He’s always at my side. He always has been, even in my dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I plan to write this big of a story? Nope.  
> Did I have a vision for one specific scene and write >20 000 words around it to make it happen? Absolutely. 
> 
> Sleeping Beauty lent itself surprisingly well to this narrative. I hope you noticed my nods to the movie, and the Once Upon a Dream lyrics snuck in throughout!  
> Thank you all for your kind support and hilarious comments! I think the story ends here, but I'm having fun in this fairytale world so who knows.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops look at that it's an epilogue

SIMON

 

It’s not until mid-afternoon that I finally slip away. Not for lack of trying — I spent the better half of the morning trying to dodge tailors and grooms and stewards and maids and get one bloody second to myself amidst all the chaos. If not for my well-ingrained knowledge of the secret passageways I wouldn’t have managed it at all.

As it is, I’ll have to put on my most winning smile to explain myself out of this. I know I’m making many peoples’ jobs harder by sneaking off, people I respect and care for, but _Merlin_ if I’m to survive this evening I need a few moments to myself to think, to breathe.

No corner of the castle is safe, not even my chambers, so I weave between ghostly tree trunks toward my favourite spot in the Wavering Wood. Deep in the Wood, where hardly no one goes, where many a boyhood game of make-believe was played.

I’ll have to be back soon. I know. But just for a minute, I sit on the trunk of the fallen tree that served as the plank on our imagined pirate ship and I rest my face on my hands and I breathe.

Probably it all would have been a lot easier to manage if I could have talked to Baz. What I’d give to be pressed beside him and feel him exhale against my skin. To know he’s nervous, too.

(He has way, _way_ less cause to be nervous than I do, I think. And I would tell him so. And he would narrow his eyes at me and eloquently convince me that I’m wrong and I’d know I’d been bested and he’d grin a tiny grin and kiss me on the nose. It would be lovely.)

I wouldn’t have survived the year I’ve had, with my father and the trial and the clang of the iron door, if not for nights together in Baz’s bed and long conversations with hands on cheeks. And I like to think that I’ve helped him too, because everything about this year that was terrible for me was terrible for him in a very different way. It shouldn’t have brought us closer together, going through the proceedings of having my father imprisoned for the murder of Baz’s mother and an attempt on Baz’s own life, but we did it. Together. Like everything else we do, and everything else we’ll do for the rest of our lives.

Except, apparently, _this._ Because this whole blasted week I haven’t seen him for a second. When one or both of us wasn’t in a meeting or a fitting or overseeing something, we were ushered away to separate corners of the castle with twinkling eyes from the staff, all laughing and babbling about _tradition._

I’ve decided I hate tradition. Who needs it, really.

I drag my hands through my hair. I’m meant to be on my way to my valets for my bath, and I’m certain the one who scrubs my hair too hard will be the one tasked with that job today. Because of course he will be. I’ll show up tonight half-bald and become the mockery of the kingdom and it will be all that valet’s fault.

Actually, I doubt I need the valet’s help to become the mockery of the kingdom. There will be countless opportunities for me to do so all by myself, and knowing me, I surely will.

Baz will be perfect. He’s always perfect.

“It seems we’ve had the same idea.”

I look up from my study of my knees and let my eyes fill up with Baz for the first time in days.

(Now I see, kind of, why that tradition is there. After missing him all this time, just laying eyes on him is the sweetest feeling.)

“Don’t we always?” I respond, and go to him.

He wraps me in his arms and puts his face in my hair and I breathe into his neck and wish for nightfall.

“Hello,” Baz says, into my hair.

“Mm,” I hum, into his shoulder.

“This is very frowned upon,” he says. “After all our hard work maintaining the tradition.”

“Fuck tradition.”

“Agreed.” He holds me tighter, leans against me.

“Are you ready?” I ask, quietly. “For tonight?”

Baz withdraws far enough to look at me, and rests his arms on the tops of my shoulders. Fingers play with my hair at the nape of my neck. His eyes are a new shade of silver, today.

“Yes and no,” he says. “But I’m terribly excited.”

I grin. “Yeah. Me, too. Also nervous, but excited.”

“Everyone gets nervous, I’m told.”

“And those lucky bastards aren’t even marrying kings, are they?”

That perfect little amused smile curves Baz’s lips. “The people like you more than they like me. And no one gives a shit if some nobleman stumbles during the ceremony, but if the _king_ does, he’ll be mocked for a century. I’ve got more to lose, of the two of us.” 

I glare at him as I fight down a grin.

Baz kisses me on the nose.

I grab his chin and kiss him properly.

“I love you,” I murmur into his mouth.

“I should hope so,” he responds into mine. I thump him on the shoulder, and he smiles. He pulls back to brush a cool thumb over my cheek and looks at me with such fondness that I know he means he loves me too.

Slowly, he draws a deep, steadying breath.

“We should be getting back,” he whispers.

I think of the violent hair-washing I’m doomed for and scowl.

“No need to look so excited, Simon,” Baz deadpans. “It’s only our wedding.”

I huff. “Shut up. It’s just I know that the rough valet is going to wash my hair. I’ll have no hair left for the ceremony, just bruises.” I smirk. “Perhaps I’ll just hide out here, where he can’t get to me.”

Baz blinks at me.

And then there’s a gentle hand sliding through my hair, and his lips are at my ear.

“If you survive it, my love, I’ll wash your hair myself for the rest of our lives.”

My eyes slip closed at the thought of Baz’s sure, nimble fingers on my scalp and his low voice murmuring distractedly about his day. Steam and fragrant perfumes in the air, only water between us.

I smile against his cheek. “I’m holding you to that.”

“A king is true to his word.”

“You’re insufferable. I have no idea why I’m marrying you.”

“You’re insufferable, too. We’re perfect.”

“We are.”

“And we’re going to be late.”

I kiss him once more, for good measure, my last time doing so without the title of King Consort.

“You go back first,” Baz says, giving my hand a squeeze. “I’ll follow in a few minutes. So they don’t realize we were together.”

“In our defence, we didn’t mean to be.”

I regretfully part from him and start back toward the castle. I glance back at Baz over my shoulder.

“I’ll see you soon,” I tell him.

He just smiles. That perfect bloody smile that makes my stomach flip. There’s the slightest hint of ferocity to it, just enough that I start to think past the ceremony and the pomp and the obligation and forward to the _marriage._

Oh, but we’re going to be great.


End file.
